


DA032: A Murder of Crows

by Rhion



Series: A Murder of Crows [1]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 149,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>F!Surana and Zevran each have their secrets. Some are stranger than others. The trouble with secrets is that they are best kept by only one person. But there's always someone else who knows the hidden things. Explicit from chapter 5 onward</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially started back in September 2010, it is going a slow overhaul to make earlier chapters mesh better in tone and feel with newer ones. 
> 
> For the moment it is neither explicit nor much in the way of trigger warnings, but in the future discussion/mention of abuse will happen. Hopefully it's oblique enough to make it non-trigger for most, but descriptive enough to impart the impression of what happened.

Strange and curious things were an expected matter of course in life. There was the weird, surreal, bizarre and plain old freakish. He supposed he could take his pick of words to describe it, and that was just in Fereldan, not to mention his native Antivan or the Orlesian he had picked up or even the smattering of Tevinter. Words were wonderful weapons to add to any arsenal, particularly the wide repertoire that had served to keep Zevran alive so long. That, and a certain wily cunning that had prodded the Crow to hide just how skilled he was, to ensure that no Masters saw him as a threat to their power because he was just as good as they were.

Sweeping the mild reverie away, his focus sharpened picking out detail after detail. Alistair was polishing his armor free of blood that would rust the metal away faster than anything. Dismissing the younger man, his eyes slipped around the camp, searching. No Warden in sight. Alistair hardly counted. Strong and skilled with shield and blade, he was far too idealistic to be a true Warden by Zevran's estimation. In his experience, Wardens led, they were not simply fighters but much more. Alistair was a fine warrior, but little else worth mentioning. The ranks must have been thin indeed for the Templar to be recruited.

The others in the group were just as engrossed and had taken no note of Lahar's absence. And to him, that was strange in and of itself even though that was the norm he had observed so far. _Well then, if they do not notice the lack of her presence, then they will not notice mine._ He rose casually from his position beside his tent and sauntered towards the area that functioned as their latrine, always a creature of caution. When he was just far enough away to become a shadow blended with the others, Zevran settled into full stealth, virtually invisible to those without the knack. It was time to hunt the Warden down, for skilled or not, nighttime was not a good time to be alone – not in these forests, not in a city and not anywhere. Besides, what good was his oath if he didn't actually follow it? 

Besides, he was curious about the girl-woman who had spared his life several weeks ago, yet hadn’t made any use of his skills as anything other than a camp guard.

From shadow to shadow Zevran flitted, not as at home in the trees as on streets or rooftops, but comfortable enough to hunt even in the dimness for a quarry that had not bothered to cover its tracks. He was long since kept from forests. Further away from the camp than was even remotely prudent, Zevran found Lahar. Pausing, the scene that was before him was assessed. Gone were her purple mage robes, a man's loose tunic and leggings having replaced them. That was not all as she slowly moved, first one hand then the next following before a sliding step turned into a fluid kick to the side. Familiar katas were repeated, a mere handful of the countless ones Zevran knew like the weight of a dagger or the scent of poison, but for all that Lahar was conversant in so few did not detract from her graceful execution of them.

Time passed, but not that much, from what Zevran could guess from the measure of light filtering through the canopy, no more than a quarter of an hour before Lahar slipped down to sit crossed legged. Again with the familiar – so strange to see the open hand fighting forms of _Baile de Muerte_ being used by a non-Crow and to watch her follow it up with the lotus position as if she were seeking to find her center. His already considerable curiosity further piqued, Zevran knew that at this point if he wanted to gain an accurate assessment of the Warden, he would actually need to speak with her rather than watch and measure as he had for the last twenty-one days.

"All alone out here in the dark, my lovely Warden," Zevran chuckled, while mockingly shaking his head. "Tsk tsk, if you were out here waiting for me you could have simply requested my presence rather than going off by yourself. I do so hate to be late to a midnight tryst."

Lahar didn't even look in his direction, "I want to be alone, please, and you're distracting me."

Her voice was neither the soft and serene, nor firm and strong tone that Zevran had come to associate with her interactions with others that he had observed. And yet – she didn't sound annoyed either which would have been gratifying in its own way. Her voice was soaked with a deep fatigue, verging on soul weary, and hollow rather than merely tired.

Reassessing the situation, Zevran bowed though she couldn't see it, "Then I shall keep watch."

"Zevran..." Her voice brought him up short before he could melt into the treeline in search of a likely perch. "If you want to talk later and haven't gone to sleep, I'll oblige."

She had not glanced in his direction, yet she read his intention, ignoring the facade he had cultivated through banter, action and looks. Cheek twitching into an almost grimace, he debated retreating. Zevran did not care for the thought that he could be transparent to a mage, to a woman who may or may not still be a child, or to anyone for that matter. Not answering in words, Zevran faded away to give her the illusion of privacy, making sure to remain within sight of her seated form.

XXX

They did not speak that night, nor the next, nor the one after that. Zevran decided he would not engage Lahar in conversation but let the mage come to him. Better not to reveal his hand when he was not sure of what the other player held.

Lahar left the camp that night and again he followed, watching her move through the open hand katas, the same over and over again before settling in for meditation. Tallying what he knew about the Warden, he divided his attention between watching her and scanning the area surrounding the camp. A strange disquiet strummed in the back of his mind, which was new to the Crow.

There was no denying that Lahar was a mage, nor that she was female, nor that she was a Warden. She had proven herself to be dangerous enough to blast himself and his mercenaries to the Pit, and naive enough to help every person along the path towards facing the Archdemon. _If_ Morrigan's complaints were to be believed.

And she knew what was supposed to be something taught strictly to Crows. 

Even a little knowledge outside the Guild was considered dangerous, and any Crow caught teaching those techniques, ones that were saved for only the most proficient of members, was...unfortunate. Going rogue was crime enough, and was generally punished with death except in the rare cases where it would be more trouble reaching the rogue Crow than it was worth. Poison recipes could be bought and sold, even lessons in general combat could be overlooked as rather minor infractions. But teaching the lethal and delicate dance, even a move or two, always brought repercussions. Guild secrets were best kept just that - secrets. And yet there was only one conclusion: someone from the Guild had taught Lahar the forbidden _Baile de Muerte._

Which oath was more important, the one forced from him as a child or the one he had given in willing trade for a chance at possible freedom, no matter how tenuous and short-lived that freedom was? And that was the crux of the problem. Zevran hadn't wanted to bear the label of Crow Master, because it bound freedom even more. It piled responsibility on top of missions and worst of all _paperwork_ on a man. And the duty of playing the Game called for torturing advanced apprentices and gathering a cell. No, Zevran would fight tooth and nail for any chance at a modicum of freedom. For now he would uphold his oath to the Warden.

Aware that Lahar was almost finished with her session, Zevran lept down from his tree branch perch and left for the camp fire, confident that she would be following behind. Alistair, who was on watch, tossed a suspicious gaze towards him, and he countered with a lascivious once over and a wink. The Templar recoiled with a look of horrified disgust twisting his pristine good looks. Pleased with the fact that Alistair would not even bother him for the rest of the evening – let alone look in his direction – Zevran plopped down with disingenuous bonelessness beside the fire.

Allowing his eyes to close for that state that was his only current method of sleep, one that resided between a doze and alertness, Zevran let his heart slow. He was a study in lazy relaxation, senses no less dull for the fact that his mind had gone blank, absorbing what revitalization he could from the action. The approaching shuffle of boot on dirt brought him back to full alert as quickly as if he had been waiting for it. Opening an eye to confirm what his ears had told him, Zevran watched as Lahar neared. Perhaps now she would reveal her first move in the game beyond the current stasis they were being held at.

"I have a question," brown hair was loosened to hang around her shoulders and the purple mage robe covered her once again.

Grinning as cheerfully as he could and throwing his arms wide as he sat up, "And I have an answer! Ah, common ground, my lovely Warden, we have reached it! Now, let us retire to your tent so we can explore that ground thoroughly, hmm?"

"Thank you, but I think I would like to remain out here." She fidgeted with her robe, a blush creeping over her face. So, Lahar wasn't as immune to his overt sexuality as she generally appeared; that was a bonus at least. She waved a hand at the ground beside him, "May I sit?"

Turning up the heat in his gaze, Zevran shifted back. "Please do." He all but purred, paired with a grin, stretching out his legs as he leaned back onto his elbows, making a tiny motion with his hand, "A supplicant never refuses his goddess."

She took a moment to settle and he allowed it, but it didn't slip his notice that she would not look at him more than a second before finding somewhere else to rest her eyes. "I have a question, and I would like you to answer it."

"Another? As you wish," he stared at her hard, as if he were undressing her with his eyes. Few could stand his unwavering gaze for long before becoming flustered, which was why he did it. _Always keep others off balance, especially those with power over you_ , was a hard learned lesson.

"Tomorrow, would you like to accompany us in the forward party? Leliana is having trouble right now with her hand, and it’s recovering from the break she gained the other day, and despite Wynne's healing, it is making her ability to work in the field difficult." Now she did look at him, searching his features no doubt. Lahar continued, "I would like to have someone around who is dexterous and you are a rogue, but if you do not wish to accompany us tomorrow, I will understand."

Quirking a brow, "I am yours to do with as you please." Zevran waved a hand that he a made sure would encompass all of him, particularly to his groin. "Your wish is my desire."

In reply Lahar shook her head, ignoring his obvious invitation, "It's a question Zevran, not an order. If you wish to remain in your current position, it's alright. You haven't really let Wynne look over those injuries you sustained in the ambush. A few healing spells from me to patch you up are no replacement for deep tissue spells and time spent recovering." She pointed a finger towards his right side, the one that Sten had cut into so deeply that Zevran had almost been in danger of being sliced in half. "Frankly, with the amount of damage you took, you should be resting more than you do. When do you even sleep? A doze here and there? Really I should have let you be a while longer." He watched as she rose swiftly with a slightly frustrated twist to her lips before continuing what he could only classify as a self-flagellating tirade - yet there was no overtly strong signs of anger as most people would bear, or more than a veneer of emotion. "And I'm sending Wynne to get a better look, to check to see how you're healing."

"I assure you -" stretching as he rose, a languid mirror of her actions, "I am more than well enough to do whatever you require of me, my sweet Warden. But," the Antivan stepped up into her personal space, enjoying the rare fact that he could near tower over someone, trailing his palm from her shoulder down to her elbow sensually, "If you would like to check me over yourself, I would gladly...submit to your care."

Her frown deepened, "You're refusing treatment from the one who could do it best." Lahar gave a short exasperated huff, "Your insides were almost outsides, and while my regeneration spell is efficient and I know the basics of healing, I'm simply not that adept at it. If you fall to infection because you're not as well as you pretend, how irresponsible would that be? It would be on my shoulders, and that's not acceptable."

"Ah, your concern warms me." Zevran grasped her hand, which was extremely cool - frigid - and light in his, and played with the digits hoping to illicit some further reaction, "But no touch other than yours will satisfy any need I may have for healing."

Calculating, Zevran wanted to be alone with Lahar. The only way to control someone other than to keep them off balance was to make them addicted to him. And his survival, his _freedom_ – and what a novel concept _that_ was – required it. Zevran could control her body, play it like an instrument, make her moan or sigh, give her pleasure, and once that was done, Lahar would belong to him. From there, he would not have to worry about anything, for Lahar was the head of the group and what she said was law. It would force the rest of the party to stop watching him so closely, to cease with their constant limiting of his movements.

Lahar extricated her hand from his grip so she could rub her temple, "Are you always so stubborn, or are you even listening? I can't prevent scarring and long term damage to your internal organs. What if one of your kidneys isn't functioning right? Or any number of other things that keep your body running?" She held out both her hands and they began to glow, "All I can do is keep you patched up enough until you get to a better healer or until your body can do most of the work. I kept you breathing long enough for your body to replenish itself but...never mind. This is foolish. Go to bed, Zevran, and tomorrow let Wynne see to you. There's no more I can do for you than that. Leliana will just have to join us until you're well."

 _Bewildered_ \- yes that was the word for the way he felt at the moment. Zevran blinked several times, realizing that it was quite probable that he was outclassed. Lahar may not be immune to his presence, to his invitations, to his touch, but she was the sort to completely ignore herself in favor of what was necessary. _And it wasn’t a mask either_ \- oh, he had come across those who pretended to ignore their own needs, but when it came down to it, they were as selfish as anyone. The Warden on the other hand might actually be a model of the true archetype. And for some reason she thought his being fully healed was meaningful and important enough to wave aside every advance he had made thus far. Pressing his palm to his sore side, Zevran could feel an ache even though his flesh appeared to be mostly healed. _No one bothers with healing so long as we can keep moving, keep working to finish a mission. Time. No one ever has time to fully recover. So long as the outside appears well enough, the inside will keep until the darkness finally drags them down one last time._

XXX

"What comes my friend?" There he was, the assassin again, being their leader's second shadow and following silently behind her as she went to the witch's tent. Zevran’s ears perked as he heard Morrigan's voice over the fire's crackle. "You look most tired."

"Because I am," the young woman sighed. "And I could use less demanding company."

Citrine eyes widened as they twinkled, "Mother would laugh at that statement, for aren't I a demanding shrew?"

A small smile graced the Warden's face, "Since when is speaking one's mind the same as being a shrew?"

Morrigan bent over her fire, a bare hand digging amongst the embers, unscathed by the heat. "’Tis not that I speak my mind, but the thoughts that come from it that mark me as such." Turning with a small, smoking bundle held in her hands, "But come, sit, let me share my repast, as Alistair's cooking would leave much for you to desire no doubt."

"Thank you," relief washed over her features. "I don't think I could handle another night of glop. Anything Zevran cooked, even if it was poisoned, would do less damage to my insides than what Alistair classifies as ‘food’."

"’Twould seem likely," the witch nodded. "But I do not think it wise to let him wander ‘round as much as you do. He did try to kill you, and he is an assassin. He will make another attempt."

Picking at the haunch of rabbit she accepted, Lahar remarked, "And you're an apostate, branded as evil by the Chantry. You may be dangerous, but you're no more evil than the wind that blows or the wolf defending its den."

Zevran eavesdropped mercilessly, wondering what the mages might be getting at.

"And your Chantry fools thrust swords of so called mercy into those who do not subscribe to their beliefs," Morrigan looked bitter, a swirling sea of rage contained barely in her bearing. "They burn, rape, pillage and destroy what they cannot subvert."

The assassin had to agree with that. How many Templars had he been contracted to kill over the years? The angry relatives of mages felled for no other reason than that they had not been sent straight to the Circle paid the Crows well. The corpses he had seen were little more than broken, rag-doll refuse, ill used by men who were considered holy. _Against the name of belief many crimes can be laid,_ he thought, relaxing against the trunk of the tree, comfortable but for the stickiness of the sap that clung to the tips of his fingers where they gripped the branch. _As many or more than the Guild. The Guild buys slaves, uses them, breaks them, kills them and orders deaths, while the Chantry has brought low nations, whole races._ He snorted, trying to keep silent. Braska, _save me from the sight of the holy!_

"They even took you, my friend, and are you better for it?" Morrigan's words drifted up to Zevran's ears once again.

They sat in silence then, each of the trio buried in their own thoughts for a time. Yawns were hidden behind a hand, and Lahar blinked with sleep heavy eyes, staring into the fire after a time. And the child had the gall to lecture him over sleep, typical.

Morrigan murmured softly, her tone and voice not unkind to Lahar, "You should sleep. Go to your rest, I will take your watch this evening."

The girl shook her head once, "I've no wish to go over there to be stared at by those who see in black and white, expecting more from me than I can be."

"So you've noticed Alistair's heavy looks," there was Morrigan's bark of a laugh. "He could be pleasurable enough if you give him a chance I'm sure."

Lahar's face twisted in momentary distaste at the mention of the Templar. "He's nice, but doesn't understand a thing. 'Magic is bad,'" She puffed up her chest, crossing her arms taking on the Templar's demeanor, "'Mages are abominations, except you, because you're tiny and female, and oh you're so defenseless!' No, I don't want to be categorized any more today."

She looked so young and childlike at that moment, Zevran revised her age from ‘possibly adolescent’ to ‘adolescent’.

"Then you may stay here in my questionable company," the witch waved a hand to her tent, "Though 'tis clear they will all think I corrupt you with my presence."

Lahar crawled rather than walked to the makeshift shelter Morrigan had built. "Stop that nonsense. You're not evil, and you're no more questionable than Zevran."

"Hmm, the assassin...you would put he and I in the same category? Strange," she moved to share the sleep area, but kept a clear space between them. "I would think a murderer would be closer to evil than not."

"Death is natural, and he serves a function in society," Lahar's yawning was becoming more pronounced, "And if he was a simple murderer, Zevran would have killed me rather than watch over me when I go for my walks. An evil person would not work to pull their own weight, or admit what they do. An evil person would hide what they were so that they could operate freely. He may hide things, and he is dangerous, but he is no simple murderer. As far as I can tell, he doesn't go out of his way to kill things just because it would be fun. There's a law and order in that Guild, or Antiva would never have remained free."

Lahar was more correct than she could know. Rules governed everything, and to kill when it was not a contract, in self defense or as a part of the Antivan Game, was frowned upon. To kill for the pleasure of killing earned one their own death quickly. It attracted too much attention, and the Crows might rule Antiva from the shadows, with the common populace aware of, and fearing the dark hand of death coming for them under contract, but most knew that they weren't important enough to draw the eyes of an assassin. If the Crows were indiscriminate, then the population would turn against them, and if that were to happen, the Guild would fall. Without the Guild, then the only weapon that the nation had against its much larger neighbors would be gone, leaving them open to being conquered. Rather, the population respected, feared, even worshiped the Guild and its members as the ultimate solution to any problem.

Need someone killed? Contract a Crow. Need a bodyguard? Contract a Crow. Need a tactician to help you through the intricacies of some political maneuvering? Contract a Crow. Sometimes they were even hired as whores, and the price for that was far higher than for most of the other skills the assassins learned. They were the best at what they did, and there was nothing that they couldn't be contracted for.

Zevran smirked. _Trystan was even contracted for marriage and to get a few babies on a woman by her overprotective father. A man who would not cheat and would be there for the children's birthdays. A most interesting proposition._ That contract would last for fifteen years, seven of which had already passed. Of course it was one that did not appeal overmuch to Zevran, nor was it one that he could have taken anyway being that he was an elf and the woman in question had been a noble.

XXX

Situating his baldrics over his shoulders, Zevran buckled them tight, pretending to turn a deaf ear to Wynne's disapproving 'mmm' while she watched him finish getting ready for the day's upcoming hike. This was the first time Lahar had allowed him to join them, having changed her mind over his physical fitness for potential fighting, and Zevran would not allow himself to be distracted.

"I don't like this." That was grousing from Alistair leaning down to whisper to the younger Warden, "Why can't we just bring Leliana?"

_Because the bones of a hand are no simple thing to heal? And because she was not operating at full capacity, the fair bard is currently remaining in Bodhan's cart, toted along like a sack recovering from being shot four times? _Keeping the words from his lips was an easy feat. _And I am expendable by comparison. Morrigan was quite correct, he is far from being stupid, sharp as a fresh blade that one._ The assassin didn't bother trying to hide his snort at the path his thoughts followed.__

__"You have something to say?" Alistair glared over at Zevran, that petulant look on his face again._ _

__Glancing up slowly, tilting his head slightly from his purposeful slouch so he appeared shorter, to take a look at the Templar, pointing at himself in surprised ‘confusion’, "Excuse me? Are you speaking to me?"_ _

__"You made a snorty-snorted sound," he accused, as if it made everything completely clear._ _

__Zevran feigned sweet ignorance, "A 'snorty-snorted sound'? Is this...some Ferelden thing?"_ _

__The small mage glided between them, laying a hand on the center of Alistair's chest, the other on Zevran's forearm, the soft chill in her touch gentle on the assassin's skin. "Enough baiting, both of you. Alistair you know why Leliana can't come with us, and you know why I would rather have someone around with that set of skills. What if there's traps? Don't you remember the time when -"_ _

__"Yes, yes I remember." The remark was made like he was reciting what had to be a prior argument, "There were tons of bear traps, and I got caught in one, and if we had had Leliana or Zevran along, I wouldn't have had to stand there for ten minutes flailing around and screaming like a little girl."_ _

__The image was a funny one, but before he could say something suitably snarky, Lahar turned to face him. "And I know Wynne says you should be fine so long as you don't get hit dead on, but I want you to take it easy and be cautious. No heroics if we have to fight. Do what you are best at, but don't take unnecessary risks. Let the big one in the metal underwear do that."_ _

__A surprised laugh broke from Zevran. "As you command, my sweet Warden. So, Alistair -" the assassin slid a sly look at him, "metal underwear...is this a common thing amongst your Templars? Does it not...restrict your movements? And...how...how do you fit? I do not think I could handle being stuffed into something metal like that all day. What would happen if I were to see some lovely woman or other? How would I properly salute then?"_ _

__There was a soft rap of knuckles on his pauldron, "I said no baiting, Zevran. Amusing as it is to see the two of you square off, I would rather keep searching for the Dalish than have to play mommy and put the two of you in time out."_ _

__Pressing a fist to his chest, the assassin bowed a quick dip, "As you wish."_ _

__XXX_ _

__"Darkspawn!" Alistair shouted even as his shield came forward, sword snapping from its scabbard, as the beasts started to show from the treeline._ _

__Wishing he had brought a bow instead of having opted for close range weapons, Zevran issued an eerie howl calling for reinforcements. In reply several questioning cries came, even as Zevran charged headlong into the fight. That short time he had spent amongst the Dalish garnered the trick he was currently using, aid coming to the party in the form of wolves. Yips and growls filled the air along with Alistair's taunting shouts and the mystic chanting of Lahar as burning ozone struck out in lightening. The sound of blood pounding in his head mingled with the frightening roars from the darkspawn was almost overpowering to say nothing of their stench._ _

__This was not the first time Zevran had seen darkspawn. He had come across a few in his search for the Wardens, but still the sight of them, the sound, the very _smell_ of them made his skin crawl. Some visceral part of the Antivan knew that there was something incredibly _wrong_ with the very existence of such creatures. In his history lessons of long ago, and the studies he used to pass his free time, spoke of how unnatural they were, a belief that was ingrained, blending with the soul deep reaction that made him snap and surge in his search to remove their foulness._ _

__Lunging forward, burying his blade in the back of a genlock, Zevran spun, a whirlwind of motion aware that the battle had to end quickly to prevent major injuries to the party. Felling another opponent, he raced off, hearing the twang of bowstring and the whistle of a barrage of arrows heading to their targets. Turning on his heel and rushing to the archers, he lashed out with a kick to one and spat in the face of another even as his blade cut a bow in twain. Trusting to his speed, Zevran continued dispatching the one that was rising from the kick he had delivered, twisting aside as a knife came at his side. A twinge above his right hip reminded him that he wasn't as strong on that side as he usually was, and it needed protecting._ _

__The diminutive Warden's scream shattered the battle-trance he had fallen into. Finishing the last of his genlocks, Zevran howled again, calling for more aid as the remaining wolf fell, echoing the mournful wail. Wynne was glowing, in the middle of sending waves of healing to Alistair, who was dripping blood and offal, but it was Lahar – blasting ice out from her hands, dark blood soaking into her robe from a protruding dagger in her thigh – who needed it most. And there was a mix of hurlocks and genlocks descending on the duo too fast for Alistair to reach them in time._ _

__Racing, leaping over the ledge the hill formed, the assassin was landing in a roll, blades twirling in his grip, hamstringing one of the stragglers as they headed towards the mages. He didn’t stop to kill it in favor of reaching Lahar and Wynne in time to save them - hopefully save them at least. Zevran sprinted, his legs carrying him in bounds. Falling upon the tangle of bodies like a madman, he laughed or he would have screamed instead. The Antivan was a blur of motion and disjointed vision as he put his body between Lahar and a truly huge hurlock in heavy armor._ _

__Deflecting the ax blow that was meant for his head, he slithered up into the beast’s guard, head butting it. Pain was lancing through his shoulder and his side, and his lungs burned. Taking a risk, Zevran grabbed one of the vials he kept on his belt and threw it into the bunch, leaping back and crashing into Lahar, dragging her back with his other arm out-flung to yank Wynne along with him as the explosion sent darkspawn flying._ _

__Stunned, rolling over, Zevran’s ears rang, and the sound of clanging metal announced that Alistair was dispatching the remaining darkspawn with the help of a fresh contingent of wolves._ _

__Moaning, struggling to rise, Zevran swayed, "Hmm that really got the blood pumping."_ _

__"Hold still dear," Wynne murmured in her soothing, motherly tone to the fallen Warden. "Alistair take the handle and, on my mark, pull it from her leg."_ _

__Moving aside while ignoring how his own life's blood oozed from him, Zevran forced his body to obey his demands and began the process of searching the dead for useful items. Lahar kept up a steady stream of soft curses in what sounded like a form of Tevinter as Wynne worked on her knife wound._ _

___Expendable, but I may as well be useful._ The assassin heaved one of the darkspawn onto its side so he could better rifle through its effects. The thick viscous goo that was the creature’s blood burnt his nostrils; he had smelled month old, water logged, bloated corpses that weren't anywhere near as bad._ _

__"Enough! Enough, I'm fine, just make sure everyone else is okay Wynne." Zevran’s ears twitched as slapping sounds, like those that happened when swatting away at too helpful hands, accompanied the grousing. "Where's Zevran?"_ _

__Mostly finished, Zevran hoisted his pack of pilfered goods over a shoulder. "So you miss me, my sweet Warden? I am touched."_ _

__They didn’t set up camp until they had moved off by several miles, although they stopped while it was still early._ _

__Most days were uneventful but on a day like this, with injuries that were more than mere sprains or something that were gone with a little effort from spells or potions, they would get as far from the battle site as possible and then promptly set up for the evening. Not once did Zevran complain as he took the rear position to watch everyone's back. Walking behind the group meant he could wince occasionally without anyone the wiser, which was why he chose that spot. As he set down the bag of loot near Morrigan, mentally preparing himself for the trial of setting up camp and then seeing to his wounds in privacy, the edges of his vision - which had already been darkening - went black and he crumpled._ _

__"Blast and damnation!" It was a harsh sound, Morrigan's voice rising in a curse. On hands and knees, Zevran stared at the ground, even as hands grasped his shoulders. "You idiots! Did no one think to ask this incompetent assassin if he were wounded before allowing him to act as a pack animal?"_ _

__Zevran was unable to contain the scream that tore out of him as energy coursed through his body while Morrigan roughly applied her skills. His last vision was of Lahar's glowing palms sending even more healing toward him, and then he knew only nightmare._ _

__XXX_ _

___Something wasn't quite right, the light was diffuse and yet the place was familiar. A Chantry, one of the sort that sat overlooking an orchard of fig, apricot and orange trees, far from the nearest town. It looked like one of the beautiful little monasteries that littered Antiva. In one of the open courtyards, a tinkling cultivated pond rested, several benches for contemplation scattered around it, marking it as a place of beauty and rest. Zevran tested the air, wondering at the haze, but smelled nothing except warm stone, water and the breeze carrying the fruits’ sweet perfume to him._ _ _

___"I see you have finally arrived, Crow." The robes of a priest could not hide what the man before him was - a killer, a weapon and a fellow assassin._ _ _

___"You have me at a disadvantage," squinting at the man's features which were strangely swirling, shifting and unidentifiable._ _ _

___The man gave a dismissive wave. "It does not matter. Come, Master Crow, walk with me."_ _ _

___The title provoked a flinch from the Antivan elf. "I am no Master."_ _ _

___"Aren't you?" Robust laughter reached Zevran's ears, "This is the Fade, and here all your secrets are laid bare. I could send you into a memory to remind you of all that you are. And what you most certainly are not."_ _ _

___Voicing his question despite the fact that he didn't want to give anything away, Zevran queried, "The Fade? The...place of dreaming? Are you a demon, then, come to take my soul?"_ _ _

___The being took his arm forcing Zevran to follow a path around the garden. "No, that I am not. Besides, do you think you even have a soul to bargain with?"_ _ _

___"I suppose not." Feeling an absence of panic was certainly odd. This thing, whatever it was, should have put every instinct on edge ready for an attack. But it did not._ _ _

___"You wonder why you are here then?"_ _ _

___Zevran thought that should be obvious, but nodded anyway. "Certainly. One is not usually aware that they are in a dream, that they are in the Fade. Yet, here I am, aware."_ _ _

___"I brought you here because I have been waiting. You have fended off true sleep for near a month," the man-like entity said. "And I have wished to test your mettle. Your presence directly affects more than the life and death of a few. It affects the lives of thousands, millions even. A Blight is upon the land. If the mission you have been dragged into fails, then not only the country of Ferelden will be damaged but also all of Thedas until the Archdemon is finally felled."_ _ _

___Stopping, Zevran moved, seeking to identify the presence once more. "And what does that to matter to those of the Fade?"_ _ _

___"That is none of your concern, Crow, but know that today I shall release you freely to the land of the awake. Your body is in dire straits at the moment." Something grasped and dug at the insides of Zevran's mind, prodding. "And I can assist from here, to a degree. The cost of it to you will be this – when next you rest you will be unable to fight sleep. You will be brought before me for judging."_ _ _

___"You are familiar to me somehow, and you are a Crow," Zevran tried to probe this man-spirit, wanting answers to the questions swirling in his head._ _ _

___"That will never cease to be the case. Once a Crow, always a Crow, even though my allegiance is to something far larger than the Guild," he nodded in agreement. "As to who I am, if you survive you may find out." A light gesture to the landscape around them, "But now it is time you arose. Your companions worry for you, and that is of great interest to me. I wish to see how they act towards you, and how you respond in turn. Now go."_ _ _

___With no more ceremony than that, Zevran fell back into a silent abyss._ _ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: There's some references to non-consensual 'adult' activities, but they stop before delving into actual depravity or action. Also there's direct mentions of child abuse. So just warning ya'll.  
> I've seen Italian and Catalan mentioned as the Antivan language, and that's all well and good, but I always thought that Zevran sounded like a cross between Antonio Banderas and Ricardo Montelban both of which are speakers of Spanish. And Antonio Banderas is from Andalusia, specifically Malaga, while Ricardo Mantelban was born in Mexico, his parents and older siblings were all from Spain. So I'm going to lean more towards Southern style Spanish. Not only that but on Dragon Wiki I found mention of the fact that Zev's facial features are actually supposed to look like that suave and so awesome personage. So darken the hair and make him taller, and suddenly Zev resembles Ricardo Mantelban from the original Star Trek years as Khan. Oh. So. AWESOME.  
> And now all I can think is "KHAAAAAAAN!" and "KIIIIIRK!"  
> Translations at the bottom, but in general they should be rather self-evident by and large I hope.This has been beta'd by Amku, as she's awesome and I wubbles her in a purely writer-loves-beta fashion. Spanish corrections assisted by the lovely Ilargi Iluna. Which I'm grateful for as I seem to constantly go into the formal when writing... mainly because I use a translator as again – my written Spanish blows.

Zevran jerked awake. Any stealth that would normally be employed in the act fizzled away as the distinct prickle of panic arose in the back of his mind. The tent was dark, and he could tell that he was not alone. Sensing, smelling and hearing the nearness of another, Zevran reached for the dagger that should be beside him, and yet as his hand groped at the tent’s floor, it found only cloth. Giving that up, Zevran's hand lashed out as he grabbed for the face of the other person, fingers digging in powerfully in spite of the mass of suffering that was his body. There was a brief struggle as the other, smaller form fought back then went lax even as he began to go for the throat. With a flash, a small lavender globe popped into life, bathing the tent in light and blinding Zevran temporarily. He shielded his squinting eyes with his free hand, and as they adjusted to the otherworldly twilight, he was able to distinguish who he was defending himself from. If ‘defending’ could be considered the appropriate term.

He rolled free of Lahar, ignoring how his wounds protested. His voice was raw with sleep when he spoke, coming out as little more than a snarl, "What are you doing in here?"

"It's my tent?" she said, rubbing at her neck as she sat up. "Please, relax. You're reopening all those stitches I had to put into you. Wynne and Morrigan took turns draining every bit of mana they had to glue you back together, but we decided that I would save most of my reserves on the off chance you might need healing in the night. So please, don't ruin all of that hard work." She didn't sound cross or angry at all. "My only complaint about this arrangement is that you hog the covers. I'm willing to share, but taking all the covers? That's just bad form. Not even Morrigan steals all of them. Actually, she's fairly snuggly."

Disarmed and confused as his sleep-addled mind tried to process her statement, he asked, "Morrigan? You are speaking of the witch, yes? She has not been replaced by a magic wielding Leliana, by chance?"

"No," Lahar said as she scooted closer, tugging on the blanket. "Though she wears very little when she sleeps. On the occasions I've spent over there fleeing all of you, we have little choice but to share body heat and blankets. She may be well versed in the elements of fire, but my skills lean towards ice. We find that we're best off complimenting each other's temperatures rather than filling the air with both."

"So, she sleeps in less than you?" he asked, giving Lahar an appraising glance. "May I watch next time? Better still, may I...join?"

Lahar made a face, nose crinkled, lips cocked into a half smile, and one eyebrow arched high with the other dipping low. "Nothing happens. That would be far too incestuous for my tastes." He didn't resist as she took his shoulders in hand and pressed him back down to the pallet. "Besides, you watch all the time, so you, better than anyone else, would know that she and I don't do that."

A denial fell from his lips unbidden, "I would know nothing of that, _preciosa._ "

"Fine, but I'm onto you." Lahar pinched the tip of his nose before flopping down and cuddling under the blankets. "Now go back to sleep. But could you promise me something?"

"I will attempt whatever you desire." He was far from relaxed even as he let his muscles loosen.

"Try not to kill me. Or hog the blankets. I get cold easily," she said, and as if to prove it a foot that felt more like a block of ice rubbed against his calf. "Oh, blood! You're toasty!"

Zevran did not _sleep_ with others. The few times he had tried it in his foolish youth resulted in someone trying to kill him. In this case there was no helping it. Mulling over a way to solve the issue presented by his reflexive instinct to kill whatever was nearby and unfamiliar upon waking, he decided that there was a possibility for avoiding conflict. If he was already holding Lahar, then his sleeping mind would hopefully label her as ‘safe.’ Or at least ‘not currently threatening.’ And it might work better if his smell was thoroughly spread over her, to mark her as ‘belonging’.

He spoke as he rolled onto his side, body protesting, "There is plenty of Zevran to go around, _princesa_." He slid an arm under Lahar's head at an angle so that he could also use it as a pillow, "I am a red blooded man and more than willing to share my warmth with one so beauteous as yourself."

"What did I say about those stitches?" she asked, but there was no recrimination at Zevran's actions. Lahar turned over to face him, and Zevran felt himself being pulled into eyes the color of hoarfrost. "I have some mana left. I could...heal you a little more to make up for whatever aggravation you've done to your injuries,” she paused, “But it will probably hurt."

"Would it speed up the process?" he asked. After a nod of confirmation, he continued, "Then do as you wish, _hermosa pequeña mia._ "

Lahar's eyes closed as she began, brow furrowing in concentration and lips pursing.

Focusing all his attention on examining the young mage to brace against what was to come, Zevran picked apart the mask she wore. She was everything and nothing like what she appeared. When he first saw Lahar as he waited to spring his ambush, he judged her to be a child that the group had rescued at some point. Zevran had thought that Morrigan would be the Grey Warden mage. _Fifteen or twenty, an exceptionally short human, or an elf?_ he thought, flexing the bicep that pillowed her head. _She never shows her ears. Even with her hair back, they are covered._ She was pale as ice and each feature of her fair face was well sculpted. The high cheekbones and softly rounded chin were unlike the more pointed sort that was the norm for most of the _elvhen_ that Zevran had come across. Her lush, expressive lips were only a few shades darker than her skin, and that too indicated human, not elf. The deep mahogany fall of hair was thick, but each individual hair as fine as a breath, and where Zevran's flesh had contact with the mage's, he felt the smoothness - which was a complete contradiction. Unless he saw her ears, he would not be able to say for certain.

Alabaster, marble, or ice -- lying there she could have been carved from any of those substances. This should have made Lahar delicate, but rather it made her hard and unyielding. That was the expression he had gazed up into when she stood over him in the clearing. A certain blankness in her features had hidden all evidence of humanity as she listened to his tale of being an assassin and his offer of allegiance. It was that expression which initially led Zevran to believe that Lahar was not a child at all. But right now, watching her lie beside him while a deep freezing cold that was so harsh it burned knitted more of his wounds together, something plucked at his thoughts.

 _Asexual and innocent of all things._ No indication of her gender identity was present in her mannerisms, her style. _Can it be she is unaware of what she looks like? Or is she savvy enough to use her attributes to portray herself this way, like an untouchable vista?_

Some event at some point in her life had scoured Lahar clean of what was supposed to be typical soft femininity. Rather than replace it with what others did – becoming a hardened harridan or an unabashed hussy – Lahar hadn't done anything. She neither denied her form, nor accepted it. With a personality that could only be categorized as neither female nor male, she wasn't even androgynous. That would imply being somewhat male, somewhat female. Rather Lahar simply was, like a force of nature, a tree, a flower or a mountain.

Zevran knew she had a personality and preferences. He had seen her eyes widen as she dove into a crock of honey, showing that she certainly wasn't some construct; she had likes and dislikes. There was also a softness to her mouth when she petted and stroked Ser Prize. _That poor beast,_ he thought, mentally rolling his eyes towards the heavens, _of all the names she could have picked, she had to be clever._ It either betrayed youth or femininity, Zevran supposed, naming the mabari like that. However, when she walked there was no sway to her hips other than what her body forced her to have. And when she touched people it might be light but it was also firm; there was no stroking. The touch simply existed, just like Lahar. Some of her overall behaviour was childish when relaxed, while the rest was inviolate and immobile. Yet all of it, all of her, everything, anything at all to her, did nothing more than ‘exist’.

A voice in the back of his mind prodded him, _Hmn, and that is far too much like myself._

It was all too easy to see a similarity of action, a pragmatism that put people off, to ensure that the upper hand was always theirs. No one would get the better of Zevran ever again, or so he had thought. His mask was all smoke-and-mirrors sexuality, an easy thing that was also useful in his profession. He always ensured that no one looked deeper into places where they didn't belong. Lahar's presentation was the exact opposite, meant to excite no reaction at all, to be looked over as nothing but an extension of her surroundings. That is until she fried, froze or crushed whoever was in her way. Malice wasn't an emotion Lahar appeared to feel, only a detached assessment that calculated the worth of mercy or vengeance at any given point. A series of pros and cons, and entirely objective.

"All done." There was muted brightness in her tone as her lashes fluttered open. "Now, I am well and truly am done in, so would you object overly much if we actually slept now?"

He intended to get at least one question answered fully as he nuzzled her face, his fingers stroking her cheek and aiming to tuck her hair behind her ear, " _Ciertamente._ If I could but steal a kiss, you will have no arguments from me, _bonita_."

Before she could protest, Zevran pressed his body and his mouth to her. His lips moved over hers, which gave no indication of reaction until he caressed the shell of her ear. Her very pointed ear. The touch garnered a surprised gasp, which Zevran took advantage of, plunging his tongue into the moist cavern while continuing to tease at the delicate shell. It was clear no one had touched her in quite the manner he was using -- to entice, to give pleasure. He smiled to himself in triumph. _Control the body, control the mind._ Leaving her lips, Zevran licked and nipped a path to her revealed ear, dragging his tongue from the lobe up to the point before thrusting it into the canal. Lahar's fingers dug into his hip, flexing rhythmically in time to his ministrations. Pulling her closer with one arm and pushing a thigh between hers to rub at the soft warmth that resided there, Zevran paid attention to and explored the side of her neck and face, always going back to that oft overlooked area of an elf's body. Or at the least very rarely properly taken care of, most lovers seemed to ignore or abuse the ears. It wasn't until Lahar was on her back, tunic rucked over her hips as he draped himself atop her, that she came back to herself.

"Zev...Zev...ran, stop," she stuttered through the fog of pleasure, sounding very much like she didn't want him to stop at all.

Humming low in his throat, he ignored the request in favor of listening to her body, which was begging for more. Soon, Zevran knew her words would echo what her body required; he just had to keep going and any remaining resistance would crumble. Balancing his weight on an elbow, Zevran skimmed the outside of her thigh with his calloused palm, tugging her leg up, urging her hips to tilt. Rocking against the now scorching heat beneath him, Zevran didn't particularly care that they both were still wearing undergarments. Those weren't a hindrance worth focusing on at the moment.

Instincts older than time were taking hold of Lahar, her body bucking up towards Zevran. _Not much resistance, but more than one so fresh would put forth, I would think._ Now it was time to delve further, to begin the real touching. As soon as his hand slid into her small clothes, Lahar froze underneath Zevran. At first Zevran took no note of it, but the complete limpness, the utter lack of response gave him eventual pause.

Breaking free of kissing her chest and neck, Zevran's brow furrowed. Lahar's face was turned to the side, eyes closed, hands loose near her head. Expressionless. Completely, utterly, entirely blank. It was as if she had blocked out everything going on. Inside, Zevran recoiled as though struck. He was very familiar with the expression she wore. Intimately familiar with it. Often enough it had graced his own features as a boy in Crow training, along with the faces of many other children going through the same.

Gagging on the curse, his words twisted under his breath. _"Braska! Que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda!"_

He shuddered as he rolled over, putting his back to the scene. Zevran had said that as a Crow he had learned to take his pleasures where he could. Others would think that was merely metaphorical, not truly literal. It was _quite_ literal; it was the only way a Crow could survive. In the brothel he had been born in, there was enough call for little elven boys that Zevran had learned to go blank like Lahar, and in the first years of his training as a Crow, it had certainly helped. That is until Zevran realized that to actually make it each day he would have to act as though he enjoyed what was happening. So he had become a consummate actor until even that wouldn't spare him, and he was forced to learn to enjoy, even desire, the agony by twisting the lines between horrified suffering and ecstasy. All Crows went through that training, if it could be called such; Zevran to a point where he could switch to a state of mind that allowed him to take blow after blow and have it feel wonderful rather than horrible.

Regaining control of his racing heart, Zevran knew this fact was one of the few things that disgusted him most about being a Crow. Death was well and good; seduction was just fine. But remembering the face of one of the boys he had grown up with, name long forgotten, who had been so ripped up that he vomited blood and other things for days before dying... Such an image was something that even Zevran's monumental willpower was helpless against, and his powerful ability to shove things to the side simply couldn't discard the memory. One of his few personal rules was never to touch a child in that way. Killing children wasn't always something that could be avoided, but _that._ Well, that could be avoided often enough. Not for any punishment or reward would Zevran inflict that on someone so defenseless willingly. Pleasure was all Zevran wanted to see on a person's face when he was having sex, no matter the purpose of the act, not mute horror and agony or that damnable blankness. It was all that separated him from whatever monster had left the wreckage of one of the whorehouse boys to die a messy, gruesome and unnecessary death.

Gathering his courage, he spoke, _"Pequeña mia,_ I have stopped and shall do no more to make you feel threatened." He swallowed thickly before he continued, "Please, speak."

"You're done?" she asked with detached curiosity. "But," she paused and there was shifting under the blanket as though she were checking between her legs for evidence, "but..."

Disgust. A vile poison that was worse than anything Zevran could cook up left him coughing as the acrid taste of bile hit the back of his throat. It was fortunate that there was nothing in his stomach to make a reappearance, or he would have retched right there in the mage's tent.

Scrunching his eyes shut, Zevran couldn't really compose himself. He hadn't been able to since he had awoken this night. "Many things I am, _pequeña mia_ , but that particular brand of monster I am not. I would have you willing or not at all."

"Oh."

And that was all that was said.

XXX

_The meal was sumptuous by a nine year old's estimation. A whole plate with chunks of chicken, potatoes, onions, peppers and vegetables he couldn't identify swimming in a deliciously spicy yogurt sauce and heaped over rice was more than Zevran wished to resist. But resist it he did, even as the handful of other children cried out and dug in, all of them so hungry that they couldn't think past the fact that here was food just waiting to be eaten. Painfully his stomach growled, reminding the nine year old that he had not eaten more than a bowl of rice a day and a piece of fruit for so long that he thought he would die, it was so bad his senses seemed dull and muted, a constant ringing in his ears, and his nose tingled, skin felt numb to the touch if he pressed it. Yet he was cautious, knowing that pain didn't always mean death. Far too often it meant surviving, with gifts of more pain to come later._

_"You gonna eat dat, runt?" a coarse gutter accent cut the words as one of the older children grabbed his plate of food, pulling it towards herself. "Didn' think so."_

_Zevran wanted to scream at her, to hit her and take the food back. The small sleep area that held the ten young apprentices was filled with the scent of mouth watering meals, more than enough for each to eat their fill and then some. But he was wary; something wasn't right. It was too much, like a wondrous dream come true. This could be a test, the way that the fresh water had been the other day – ‘consume at your own risk’. Or there was the time that he had fallen asleep at lights out, figuring that it was safe enough as the Master had said it was, only to awaken to the whipcrack of a switch on the soles of his feet._

_Fists clenched in his lap, Zevran held himself tight. If the food was safe and bore no punishment for eating it, he could eat the scraps everyone left, as demeaning as that would be. The only betrayal of his ardent desire for sustenance was the hard stare at the other apprentices’ plates and the growling of his stomach. A few others had eaten a little and left off, not quite as leery as Zevran._

_In the end, the only ones who survived that dinner were Zevran and those who had only eaten a small portion. Almost two thirds of the group died, bodies twisting and vomiting up the meals they had wolfed down, dead for giving in to need..._

_..._

_"Interesting." The pool in the courtyard swirled. Zevran sat beside it, once more in the Chantry. "You didn't succumb at all to that temptation. Not one bite crossed your lips in spite of your hunger. Why is that, Zevran?"_

_He shrugged. "I had been trained for almost three years by that point, Crow, and I knew not to trust the appearance of anything. Everything is a trap, even if it is something you need." The Master Crow was watching him, the Chantry robes gone, replaced with leather trews and vest, sword pommels jutting over his broad shoulders, "But you know that. You were trained just as I was, and you also trained others in turn, no?"_

_"You did not then?" there was a faint humor in his voice, and Zevran detected a smile but still couldn't see the entity's face. "What of Rinna? Didn't you train her in the ways of the Crow? Didn't you put her through her final breaking yourself?"_

_Angry, Zevran rose. He appeared incapable of controlling himself here in the Fade. "It was me or the others."_

_"Don't you mean it was you or Taliesin?" Sounding like he was smiling, “And well you knew his tender mercy.”_

_Making a fist, Zevran lashed out, roaring out his pent up emotions. Taliesin was the one who had put Zevran through the last, most brutal part of becoming a full Guildmember. The process was to take whatever humanity was left, fan its flames._

_And then snuff them out._

_It was a process that was more than pain. More than sexual. More than brutal. It was a murdering of spirit. Hope of anything other than being a Crow would be completely and utterly destroyed. All sense of self was to be removed and replaced with the outline of a person. An empty one. To become nothing more than a vessel that was named “Crow.” Everything that came afterward was a character design assigned by the Guildmaster to each resulting Crow according to the areas they were strongest. Zevran's preference for seduction, fine things, using poisons and dual wielding – all of it was implanted._

_Every single thing about him was fake. Even his emotions were a byproduct of programmed response, if he took away the identity he had been assigned. He was nothing without the trained responses beyond a collection of tissue._

_The ensuing fight between Zevran and the Crow had an inevitable outcome: Zevran was beaten down, and still his training bid him rise. And again, he was forced down. Any Crow would fight to keep their assigned personality, unless, in theory, the order for a change came down from the Guildmaster. Reminders that they were little more than moving statues, nothing more than disposable tools used until they were no longer fit, were to be avoided._

_Zevran had once seen a Crow who had never been assigned an identity. It was a failed experiment. It had simply sat there, unaware of the weather, unaware of the food that would be placed before it. At one point it had been male. Its body had remained so, at least outwardly. In the end it was only a thing with no will of its own. No drive to eat, to get out of the harsh sun or the startling chill of the Antivian evening. With an immunity to the elements – or at least the ability to tolerate extremes – the Crow took weeks to die. It withered slowly, sitting in its own waste, kept alive by training and by the occasional scrap of food or sip of water forced on it, curious Masters examining its responses or lack thereof._

_Screaming in defiance, Zevran struggled, using every trick, every skill imparted by forty plus years of Crow training, unwilling to give in._

_Finally the Master Crow stopped his resistance, allowing himself to be pummeled by Zevran until the elf ceased. "Very interesting, some of your inner self survived the process."_

_He glowered, the haze of rage coating his vision, snarling, " **Nothing** survives the _ Culminación _."_

 _"No -" he countered, shaking his head, "for some it does. Sometimes. Either that or the personality assignment was close to what the Crow would have become if left without going through the_ Culminación. _"_

_Zevran rocked back on his heels, hands fisted against his knees. "Not possible."_

_"You would not have taken to the personality that Taliesin was given, nor the one I was," he explained, sitting up. "Not the way you took to the seducer. You were given one that truly fit you, or as truly as any of the other ones handed down could fit." He grunted, "You have strength even here in the Fade." As he rubbed at his jaw, the Crow eyed him speculatively. "You should consider it an honour, Zevran – few men are given that role because we tend not to be as good at it as women. But that's just prejudice anyway. I have known women who were given it who would have been better suited to the other styles."_

_If Zevran had thought there was a chance of success, he would have killed the Crow before him. It was some sort of spirit of the Fade now, wherever it had originated from, and as Zevran understood it according to the Chantry's teachings, the thing couldn't truly be killed, only dispersed. And only temporarily._

_Backing away, he asked, "So, are you sent by the Guild?"_

_"No. I am a product of it, but they couldn't control me now even if they knew I existed," he replied, sitting cross legged, elbow on knee, chin in hand. "And if they knew I existed, all the Guild's mages would piss themselves."_

_"What are you then?" Zevran demanded._

_"As I said before, all you need know is that I am, and that is enough." He snapped his fingers. "Brace yourself...."_

_...Hard, calloused hands crushed Zevran's slim hips, gouging what little skin was there. It was a sensation he fixated on, a mild discomfort that he used to eliminate the other much less pleasant ones going on. He was thirteen, and he knew he had no choice but to submit, to act like he cared for what was happening. In the past, that worked, made things go faster and then he could go clean up and force the experience from his mind. Lately that had stopped working entirely, and in the last few days, when he had submitted, it would go on for hours and hours, being traded and passed around to women or men alternately. And so he quieted, didn't fight, didn't fake, just waited. But it never stopped until many hours later when he would be allowed some sleep, some food and then it would begin anew._

_Suddenly the words of an older apprentice came to Zevran, “Take your pleasures where you can.”_

_It took some time for a kernel of understanding to grow – days, maybe weeks of being passed around. As Zevran sublimated the pain he received, he found it twisting into something that...felt good. At some point the thought of feigning enjoyment or ignoring the act passed from memory, and Zevran wound up relishing the acts enough that pleasure_ would _wind up coalescing. Then he didn't care if it stopped or started again, not anymore because the result would be the same.  
Completion...  
…_

_"Enough! That is...enough," Zevran wrenched his mind from the memories, clutching the sides of his head, panting, hunched over._

_Crow stared at him, and Zevran felt a flash of triumph. "Wonders never cease."_

_He straightened, hugging himself. "I have had enough of your game, Crow. What is it you want?"_

_"Tell me, Zevran, how many full Crows do you think Antiva has?"_

_Grimacing, "Four, five thousand of the intermediates."_

_"Not them," Crow said, producing an apricot and taking a bite of it. He waved a hand as he rose, pacing. "I mean the_ true _Crows. How many do you think the Guild has that have completed_ Culminación _?"_

_Not wishing to play the game, but knowing that there was no escape, he answered, "I do not know, but I suppose you do."_

_Chuckling, "Approximately, yes. Not quite twenty score. Just think, less than half a thousand fully fledged Crows. And so few survive the five year wait before_ Culminación. _"_

 _"I fail to see how this matters," Zevran replied, turning his back to Crow and walking away.  
_  
XXX

The third day after he had attacked Lahar and the fourth night they would end up sharing the same tent, Zevran was well enough to follow her on her walk. They hadn't spoken of what he had done. Lahar's demeanor remained unchanged towards him, as though the almost rape hadn't even happened, as if she had forgotten it or dismissed it as normal. Foreboding itched up and down Zevran's spine; he had some inkling of what that had to mean for the mage. Surely such occurrences didn't happen _in_ the halls of the Circle? But her behavior spoke volumes. One didn't act like that if it had happened a time or two. Frequent, long term abuse was required to garner that kind of defensive mechanism.

Raking shaking hands through his hair, Zevran couldn't stand the uncertainty he had been going through. Emotions were foreign, distant things that he could feel or, rather, had learned to mimic for so long that he _almost_ could feel them, but every day after waking from the Fade, his condition worsened. A malaise was creeping from somewhere in his psyche, like Crow was picking apart everything that Zevran had learned to be. The only thing that was constant in Zevran's life at the moment was Lahar and her body near his when they went to bed or when he awoke. Seeking a modicum of normalcy, Zevran plunged forward, vowing to join Lahar this evening in her exercise.

 _If I am to be damned for failure then I may as well have earned it,_ he thought, moving through the underbrush on light feet.

Lahar betrayed her surprise as he came near. "Zevran?"

"Show me what you know of _Baile de Muerte,_ " he said, his tone brooking no argument. 

It was the first time he had invaded her personal ritual with action. Dropping into a ready stance, Zevran waited. Lahar took a few moments to measure him, taking in how comfortable he was while presenting his side to her, offering a minimal target while his hands were palms to the sky, arms straight. She mirrored him finally, her unease shown in the stiffness of her back.

"Attack, _princesa_ ," he beckoned.

It couldn't have been considered sparring, for in less than a minute Zevran had a forearm hooked around her neck with her back pressed to his chest. Grunting, Zevran released her only to reposition her stance to his satisfaction. No words were exchanged, but they were not needed. An hour later, Zevran, body still weak, held up a hand halting the lesson.

"Where did you learn to do that?" It was a question that should have come from him. Lahar was stretched out on her stomach beside him, head tilted to the side with a deep look of complete curiosity asking more than just 'where' he had learned, but 'why' he was teaching her. It was the first time Zevran saw a truly full blown emotion on her face instead of a shadow.

Zevran fanned himself with the hem of his shirt, letting the night air dry the sweat on his stomach. "Antiva."

There was a hint of irritation in her voice, "I figured that, Zev." A blast of frigid air emanated from her position. "I mean, where in Antiva did you learn it?"

He shuddered from the cold, but enjoyed the gooseflesh that sprang up on his overheated skin. "If I tell you, I would have to kill you."

"I seem to remember that not going so well for you last time," she said. Zevran was grateful when she didn't push further, because he really was capable of killing her before she could think to put up a defense. "You called it _‘Baile de Muerte_ ’. Why?"

"Rough translation, _pequeña_ , is death dance or dance of death or some such," he replied, shrugging. "And that is what we call it, for that is its name. It is a specialty of sorts for when there are no weapons other than one’s own body at hand. And there are far more katas than what you know."

Lahar issued an indelicate snort, "I thought obvious statements were Alistair's forte."

He wondered how to broach the topic that was truly bothering him, his eyes cast upwards. "And you, my dear Warden, where did you come by the skill?"

"The man who raised me, he moved like you do, and I used to watch him in the evenings." There was a sadness that crept slowly into her voice. "I would sneak from my bed, and stare and stare. Eventually, he noticed and began teaching me. He showed me more than I can do now. It was hard to find space, time, and privacy to practice in the Tower."

He was shocked. _A Crow raised her? It may explain her...issue._ He stuffed the thought in the back of his mind for later examination, along with the shadow of anger. "How old were you when you went to the Tower?"

"I don't want to talk about it," she replied, beginning to withdraw.

Snaking an arm out, Zevran grabbed her hand, "Then you do not have to, _preciosa_. I shall respect your wish. Now come, sit back down, and we shall talk of more pleasant things." Offering what he hoped was an enticement, he continued, "I could perhaps teach you some Antivan, if that would please you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> princesa = princess  
> hermosa pequeña mia = my beautiful little sweet  
> Ciertamente = Certainly  
> que me jodan, soy un cabrón de mierda = Fuck me, I'm a shithead (sorta, approximately as cabron is rascal/asshole, though depending on what Spanish speaking region one is from, it can also be a homosexual slur)  
> Pequeña mia = my small one  
> Culminación = Culmination


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original AN, circa 2010: I don't like Zathrian, he is way to skeezy and so I'm departing from the game here on many details if not outcomes of this part of the quest.  
> Elven and Spanish translations at the bottom. Got the elvish though from the DragonAgeWiki and the Spanish from FreeTranslation, with big assists from Ilargi Iluna.  
> The awesomeness that is Amku beta’d this. But as I did go back over it and fiddle with it, there may be some fubars again. Which are entirely my fault, not Amku's.

“Surely there must be some secret to it,” Morrigan prodded.

Zevran debated what sort of deflection he should use. “If there were such a secret, it would only remain so if it were not bandied about like a half eaten turkey leg at a festival, my dear.”

The witch walked beside him, the forest trail passing beneath their feet comfortably. “If your Guild of carrion eaters truly rules, then it is because the foolish population allows it.”

Shrugging, Zevran scanned the trees, knowing that they had been watched by unseen eyes for the last few days. Ahead, Lahar strode in Sten's shadow, using her staff to keep her balance on the rough ground. Antivans all knew who really controlled the decisions that went on in their country, but why fight it? Antiva, as small as it was, was the most prosperous nation in Thedas, though they didn’t flaunt it on the world’s stage. Most didn't bother questioning it, there was no reason to. Why bite the hand that feeds, even if it requires a few sacrifices now and again?

But Morrigan wouldn't give it up. “So tell me, what is it that makes the sheep wish to be guarded by the very wolves who would eat them for their meals?”

“Maybe it is because the wolf is best suited to dispose of other wolves,” Lahar interjected, proving that she had been paying attention to the conversation. “Who best to fend off danger than that which is already dangerous?”

Zevran gave her an approving smile. “That is exactly it, _pequeña._ ”

“Seems an inefficient way to control a population,” Morrigan huffed.

Chuckling, Zevran countered, “My, my, and I thought you would approve of ruling with fear.”

Sten interrupted their conversation, his tone demanding their attention, “We are being watched.”

Zevran held his own counsel, for he had been more than aware of it. _He_ was only waiting for the Dalish to show themselves. Suspecting that Sten had only spoken so as to silence the conversation, Zevran checked the bolts that swung at his hip. The crossbow was far from a favored weapon, but he was proficient enough to do damage to any who attacked before he would have to switch to close range weapons. There was a fifty-fifty chance that the Dalish would attack, the group’s chances only marginally improved by the fact of his being clearly of the _elvhen_. Otherwise Zevran would estimate the band simply being slaughtered with no warning as the most likely outcome. Dalish elves defended their camps with a ferocity that was unrivaled, and with good reason. Loosening the straps of his helmet, Zevran removed it casually, ears twitching once free of the confines. Protection from blows to the head was mitigated by his desire to increase their chance of being identified as “friendlies” rather than “enemies.” _Killing the scouts would be frowned upon and would make it that much more difficult to have those treaties honored,_ he thought, but even so he readied himself for a fight.

“Halt! Come no further!” As they rounded a bend, slender forms detached themselves from the shadows of trees while others rose up from their positions on the ground.

Zevran reached out, preventing Sten from whipping his greatsword out, giving a subtle shake of his head. 

_“Anath ara.”_ Spreading her arms as she bowed, Lahar waited showing some basic knowledge of their people's tongue.

The elf stared at them, suspicion on her countenance. “You are not of the Dalish. Explain yourself, _shemlen._ Why have you come here?”

 _At least they haven't attacked,_ Zevran thought. Noting that none of the scouts had relaxed, he amended, _Yet._

Revealing nothing of her nature and not giving a response to the derogatory – and incorrectly applied – term, Lahar continued, “I come in peace and with a request for aid.”

One of the scouts snickered, whispering so softly that none but another elf could catch it, “And I'm a flat ear. Hmph.”

“We have no aid for, _shemlen_ ,” the scout hissed, cutting the air with a hand.

 _“Abelas,”_ Zevran addressed the group himself, “but we are not all _shems._ ”

Distaste was evident in the lead scout, her tattoos making her even more fierce. “And what does that matter? You are no child, but bear no _vallaslin._ ”

“I was taken from my clan by slavers before I could go through the ritual, _lethallan,_ and it is hard to speak on it,” he lied without flinching.

She frowned deeply in return, but waved it off. “You are near our camp, leave now and do not return, or we shall kill you.”

“We have no wish to fight, but I am a Grey Warden.” Zevran caught the curious glance Lahar gave him even as she stepped forward. “I must speak with your Keeper.”

The scout growled in resignation, “Then come with me, _shemlen,_ and you -” she she jabbed a finger in Zevran’s direction, “as well. The rest will stay under guard. I will not pollute the camp with more filth than I must.”

“Morrigan, go inform the others to come and not be alarmed.” The witch nodded before backtracking, and Lahar looked to the hostile elf leader. “We will make no trouble. I only wish for the others to catch up. This is acceptable...?”

“I am Merrill, and I allow it,” she replied in grudging agreement. “Come now.”

XXX

Zevran did not like these Ferelden _elvhen_. The stench of despair and bigotry filled the air like an open sewer. What did it matter that they had reason to be so hard? Rather than seeking a way to solve their problems, they only compounded them. By staying closed off from the world and living as they did, this clan brought more hardship on themselves by earning the ire and fear of the _shemlen_. Antivan _elvhen_ , even of the Dalish variety, traded freely with the cities and towns and were left mostly to their own devices. 

Wynne was off with the healer seeking to offer some sort of assistance, even though Zathrian protested that there was nothing that simple healing could do against the curse, further evidence of things being out of place. A Keeper should welcome help from anyone so skilled in the healer’s craft, _shemlen_ or no.

 _A curse that they probably brought down on themselves somehow,_ the Antivan thought sardonically as he watched the camp, noting the undercurrent of fatigue in everyone. _They are all ready to give up._ Something had poisoned these Dalish more than the simple curse. Frowning, Zevran identified what it was – children, there were only a handful scattered around the camp, and not enough _halla_ to pull the _aravels_. Guessing that the clan had worse problems than just werewolf attacks, Zevran listened with half an ear as Zathrian droned on. 

Glad when the contrived speech was over, Zevran tugged Lahar aside. “I do not like this.”

“Me neither,” she agreed, bending her head close to his chest. “Something doesn't add up.”

“Be cautious, _preciosa_. Men like this Zathrian are motivated by more than the good of their people,” he warned, leaning down and tucking hair behind her ear to make it visible to those who were watching. Zevran rested his forehead against hers, copying her movement and hoping to offer any protection he could by ensuring that the Dalish took them for a Bonded pair. “Take a good look at the camp. Even taking into account the werewolf attack thinning their numbers, there are too few people here.”

“What do you suspect?” she asked, her breath smelling of mint.

“I am unsure,” he paused, thinking it more than possible that some sort of blood magic may be involved. So few children bothered Zevran to no end. “But I suspect we will find out, _princesa_ , and soon.”

Elves may not breed as often as humans, but in a camp there were always more children evident than adults. That was not the case here. Perturbed, Zevran left Lahar to scout around on his own. She would be safe enough now that their companions had been allowed to enter the encampment. 

Digging out a piece of honeycomb from a hive they had found the day before, Zevran made himself comfortable near one of the children. Pretending to be unaware of the attention garnered by this action, Zevran broke a bite off, popping the waxy treat into his mouth and sucking on it until the honey itself was gone, then chewing the remaining wax before spitting it out. 

_“Andaran atish'an.”_ The child had clearly struggled to pluck up the courage to speak, but the sweet Zevran held must have been too tempting to resist. 

Which was the whole point.

 _“Anath ara, da'len,”_ Zevran replied, smiling. “Would you like some?” He held out the parchment in one hand, the fist sized honeycomb oozing its golden prize. “There is more than enough to share.”

Large, forest green eyes stared up at him. The sexless child could have been no more than five or six. “May I?”

“If you like,” he said with infinite patience. 

The child climbed atop the boulder Zevran had taken for his seat and settled in. Once the child was happily gorging himself – or herself – on the treat, the wariness was soon forgotten and Zevran began asking questions. It was unsurprising that the little boy, named Atathis, was an orphan. And it was also unsurprising that all of the children had been 'rescued' by the clan to replace the increasing number of children that had been lost over the years. 

“So are there currently no pairs, _da'len_?” he inquired.

Atathis shook his head, “No, _lethallin_ , the big wolf people went for the paired hunters.” 

Nodding, Zevran gave a reassuring smile, “Well, do not worry, _da'len_. The problem will be solved soon.”

“You'll fix it then?” The hopefulness in the little one's voice was enough to make Zevran wince.

Ruffling the child’s hair, he replied, “Of course, _da'len_. My compatriots and I will make sure of it.” A twinge of guilt assailed the assassin as he spoke, praying that he was not lying. 

Leaving the boy to his own devices, Zevran continued through the camp. It was an odd choice of location, in some ways resembling a village more than the mobile rest stops that the Dalish favored. There were no permanent structures, but the ground looked as if it had been flattened by repeated crossings, bespeaking a certain amount of permanence that was far from the Dalish nomadic lifestyle. Another detail besides that quickly presented itself, and it was as disturbing as the lack of children. 

He stopped a likely hunter, his voice tentative, “ _Anath ara, lethallin._ A moment if I may?”

“I have things I must be about, there's game to be dressed and portioned out,” the thinner, red haired hunter replied, annoyed with the interruption.

Zevran cleared his throat under the elf’s glower. “It has not been so long since I lived amongst the clans. I am able to assist.” He continued, giving a helpful and disarming smile, “I have questions to ask about your clan. In exchange, I would be pleased to give back what I can, _lethallin,_ for such hospitality.”

The hunter was clearly uncomfortable but nodded acceptance, _“Ma nuvenin.”_

Following to where several large deer were still hanging from branches, throats slit so that the blood would drain into the buckets below, he settled in to do his part. They worked in silence, stripping skin from muscle, and muscle from bone. The Dalish wasted nothing. Even the intestines had been pulled out for later use in tanning and sausage making.

“The _asha_ who leads, she is very young,” the statement was one Zevran had been waiting for.

“She is my _asha_ , and young she may be,” he returned, wiping at his cheek and leaving a smear of blood behind, “but being a Grey Warden and a mage leaves one older than any simple number of years would imply.” He added, “I have been blessed that she accepted me as hers.” He made certain to add a hint of pride to his tone. 

“You are recently paired then?” poorly veiled prying, the Dalish hunter’s lack of experience with outsiders granting him no smoothness, but Zevran played along.

Zevran nodded. “Quite. She has only been free of the Circle for a short time.” Offering a question of his own – one Zevran knew the answer to already – he paused in his work and turned to the hunter, “And what of you, cousin? Are you blessed with a partner?”

A muscle jumped in the other elf's jaw, accompanied by a too hard slash to the deerskin, tearing it. “No. There are not many available for a young scout like me.”

Soothingly, Zevran played the sympathetic and understanding role. “Next Gathering I am sure you will find one to alleviate your loneliness. A strong and skilled hunter is always valuable to a woman. You must only be patient, and then you will find a suitable partner.”

The glare he received was far from unexpected. “How many times have you paired? You are not young.”

It was an open implication that Zevran was older than would be desirable for a fresh match. The Dalish didn't show outward age the way humans did, and the vain part of Zevran hissed in agitation even while giving no outward indication of his ire. He well knew the fact he was half Dalish didn't mix well with whatever his sire was. In all likelihood his father was a City Elf, whose lives went almost as quickly as a human’s, their elven blood only affording them a handful more years than the average _shemlen_. And so, Zevran showed his age more than a full Dalish would. Then again a good part of his outward aging had been purposeful, a former master having carved it into his face - so perhaps it was the fault of his blood, or perhaps it was the fault of scarring, he couldn’t tell, and for the most part, didn’t care. _This_ cabrón _thinks I'm the same age as Wynne probably. Not virile enough to handle a young woman?_ Braska _but I could show everyone here a thing or two if I had a mind to. I hate this stupid_ cabrón _, and I_ detest _these Ferelden Dalish_. It was clear that the hunter thought Zevran was fully Dalish, and the implications attached to the idea only furthered the blows to his ego.

“Only the once.” It was his turn to be curt. “That is all it takes though, hmm? It makes thoughts of spending a sleepless night quite appetizing, even for one of my _advanced_ years.”

That put the unnamed hunter in his place. And made it clear that Zevran was willing to demonstrate the Bond between he and Lahar. _Never mind that it is far from true,_ he thought, returning to the work at hand. _With so few females, so few children – it would be unlikely that they would willingly pass up the chance to add another woman to the group. And a mage at that._ They had stepped into a very delicate situation, and Lahar's wish to gain aid against the Archdemon by using the treaties was in peril of failure simply as a result of whatever was truly ailing this clan. Initially Zevran had implied the pairing so that Lahar's status would be boosted by his obvious Dalish blood. Now, it was all that kept her from being stolen, the rest of the group killed as trespassers, and the mission on track. _Fate is a fickle whore who has decided to give me crabs in return for playing her game. Puta._ But Zevran was grateful that guest laws and hospitality were so deeply ingrained into Dalish culture, at least when the guest was apparently Dalish themselves.

“You should speak to Lanaya so that an _aravel_ can be set aside for you and your mate,” the hunter said, openly hostile now and obviously angry at Zevran's strong claim on the elven woman, “The _shems_ can share the guest tent.”

“A wonderful suggestion, _lethallin_!” he exclaimed with sickeningly false gratitude. 

XXX

Picking his way to where a scout had said Lahar would be, Zevran couldn't help the unease he felt from the information he had gleaned. It was as if the clan were held under some spell that had absolutely nothing to do with Witherfang's curse. Each elf he had spoken to painted the picture of a slowly dying group. No one was reproducing and what few had Bonded had been unable to conceive. That meant that this band had been stealing children, possibly from Alienages or towns that had some sort of elven community. Possibly even other clans. 

Why would Zathrian allow this anyway?

In Antiva it was true that there were no homeless children – they were all pressed into service of some sort. Orphans went to the Chantry or to the Crows, each to be molded for some purpose rather than left to clutter the streets. If what Zevran suspected was true and the handful of children that were in this clan were all kidnapped.... Such was his disquiet over this that Zevran didn't notice the sound of water on stone or splashing.

Head whipping up, Zevran's breath caught in surprise.

Hair slicked back, water sluicing down the long curve of back and bottom, Lahar resembled nothing so much as a water nymph. Licking his lips, Zevran forgot for a moment what his train of thought had been. Her mage robes hid much, as did the men’s clothes Lahar wore during their lessons. This was the first time Zevran had actually seen more than a glimpse of what was beneath all that fabric. The deep curve of her spine had long, twisting strands of hair clutching the skin as though ropevine grew from the flesh. Gone was the ice sculpture, sunlight giving Lahar a diffuse glow and color to what had been virtually colorless before. Shedding his own garments, Zevran decided to join her, as it seemed the only logical thing to do. 

The rustle-clank from his armor hitting the ground must have alerted her to his presence, not that Zevran planned on hiding it anyway. “Zev?”

“Hmmm?” He yanked his tunic over his head, and kicked the boots from his feet. 

“What are you...doing?” she asked timidly, her hands covering her eyes as his leggings followed the way of the rest of his clothes.

Rather than answer with words, Zevran measured the depth of the spring and stepped closer before arcing into a smooth, shallow dive. He resurfaced farther out in the deeper area of the spring, shaking strands of his own wet hair from his face while treading water. One handed, Zevran loosened the braids that held the locks back and then moved forward in lazy strokes to the shallow area that Lahar was in. Feeling for the bottom of the pond - it was wonderfully free of debris. Perhaps the Dalish dredged this site often? - and gaining a secure footing, Zevran moved to stand over the Warden.

“I had asked for some privacy for this,” she said, nose crinkling as she poked the center of his chest. “Do you make it a habit to barge in on someone when they're bathing?”

Zevran winked in reply, “If given sufficient cause, _ciertamente_. And in...”

Forestalling him with another poke, “I sense another 'in Antiva' comment coming.”

“Actually,” he paused, nonplussed, “I was going to say that...well.” He frowned. Zevran felt his ears going flat against his will, something that he had learned at some point to stop doing – an elf's ears, particularly a Dalish's as they tended to have more prominent ones, could give away much of their mood, which was why elven Crows were taught to control them. “ _Braska_. Fine, I was going to say 'in Antiva'.” 

“-In Antiva,” Lahar chimed, shaking her head. “You’re getting predictable, assassin.”

Grousing, “If you do not wish to hear of Antiva, then I will stay silent when next you inquire. Happy now, _princesa_?”

Zevran scowled, presenting her with his back before ducking under the water enough to search for some soap root. Fingers quested in the spring’s bed until alighting on the coarse plant. Ripping up a handful Zevran reentered the land of air, pushing his blond hair back once more. That was the irritating thing about long hair; it was constantly in the way, but at least it wasn't as long as it once had been. Irritation was one of the only emotions that Zevran could truly feel anymore, a familiar companion that never seemed to leave. Time may have restored a modicum of real emotion and more recently feelings had returned, but it was all rooted in his persona, while irritation.... 

It was a sensation he was feeling most keenly at the moment.

“Zev, are you...are you angry?” There was hesitation in her voice.

He replied with nothing more than a grunted, “What?” while snapping the thin roots to reveal their pale yellow insides and lathering himself up.

“I didn't mean to make you angry,” she said, touching the small of his back and stilling his frenetic scrubbing. “It's just sort of funny sometimes, the way you constantly say how things are in Antiva versus here. So often you look at something and say 'in Antiva it is not this way – we do not do that there'. You're in another country, in a place that is thousands of leagues distant from your birthplace, so it would be logical for certain things to be very strange to you. Different weather, different landscapes, different culture, different language.” 

The Crow stared down at the clear water, seeing his feet partially buried in the pebbles and sand covering the spring’s basin. “Some are exactly the same, _pequeña_.” Sighing, he continued, “It is difficult to acclimate to the strangeness, for it is startling and curious when so much is just like Antiva.”

As if changing the subject, Lahar offered, “Sometimes I look at the sky and wonder how it is I lived without it so long while in the Tower.” Water sloshed as Lahar came close enough for Zevran to feel the ever present chill of her body near his. “It makes me feel small and lost. Just think, some mages don't remember anything about the outside world because they were taken by the Templars so young. A girl I knew, Yanli, was brought to the Tower when she was three. How foreign would free flowing water, open sky, dirt, even a tavern appear to her? How would she cope?”

He replied, shrugging, “Poorly, she would be terrified by the simplest things.”

“There are no strangers in the Tower. Anyone new loses their polish, no matter how bright or shiny, within hours, days perhaps,” she agreed. “Everything would be a new country, worse than a new language. She would have no common ground with this outside place. You, you're an adult at least. You speak the language, you can take care of yourself. You can catch food, bargain for goods, fight if need be.”

“How long did you stay in the Tower, Lahar?” he asked for the second time, “How old were you when you were forced to leave the man who raised you?”

Her answer was short, “Too long and too young.”

Zevran turned to face her. “How old are you now, _bonita_?”

“Old enough,” she replied, sidestepping, “to know that the world is far larger than the prison I was kept in. Young enough to want to explore it for myself.” The young Warden must have known she was being aggravating, so Zevran was relieved when she answered fully, “I turned eighteen two weeks ago or thereabouts. Birthdays in the Tower aren't celebrated, and it has been so long since...” she faltered as a faraway look entered her eyes, “Since anyone cared when it was that it has become just another day on the calendar.” False brightness pinched her cheeks. “Besides, in the grand scheme – everything passes eventually and loses all meaning in the end.”

The overwhelming urge to cup Lahar's cheek came to Zevran. Fighting it down, his thoughts prodded him, _So I_ am _old enough to be her father. I really am a dirty bastard._ More like he was old enough to be her grandfather. He had bedded whores younger than her, this he could not deny, but they had been aware of the score and tended not to live long anyway. The average lifespan for a prostitute was mid to late thirties, so being eighteen would mean they were already halfway through their life and had probably started working at fourteen. A mage on the other hand could live for...much longer. Indefinitely, if the story of one of the Guild's blood mages was to be believed. 

He must have been still for too long. “And you, how old are you? I won't tell anyone if you promise not to tell the others how old I am.” She whispered, leaning in and holding a hand to one side of her face, “Alistair is twenty-six and a virgin; Leliana is twenty-seven and definitely _not_ a virgin. Wynne is in her sixties.... And I have no idea how old Morrigan or Sten are.”

The assassin winced. “I am probably closest to Sten's age.” Zevran answered, leaving out a _'and much, much older than you'_. “So I just have to ensure that I do not tell anyone that the youngest, least experienced person is the one in charge, or there may be a revolt amongst the peasants, _si, preciosa?_ ”

A shocked laugh bubbled from her lips, “Jowan always said that the peasants are always revolting. It's only real trouble when they start rebelling, my dear Zevran!”

Seeing an honest smile, laughter even, on Lahar's face chipped at Zevran's resolve to leave her alone until the elf made an opening for him. _Mitigating circumstances call for drastic tactical revisions,_ he thought, and really the lothario in him insisted on action. Who was he to fight against the draw? Moistening his lips with a flick of tongue, Zevran closed the small distance that separated them. Lahar's smiles were degenerating into giggles and just as he was taking her chin between thumb and fingers, there was a commotion from the bank of the spring accompanied by much woofing.

Ser Prize bounded into the water, tongue lolling, water splashing all over the place, and promptly bowled Zevran over with one massive shoulder. Sputtering and cursing “meddling canines” in Antivan, Zevran flailed with graceless anger. And Lahar's laughter grew even as she scolded the beast.

“That's not very nice, Ser Prize. Not very knightly of you, knocking people over. What did I say about that sort of thing?” she asked, referencing the frequency with which he left people in the wake of his playful destruction whenever he sought out Lahar to beg for attention.

Zevran glared, leveling a finger at the hound, _“Vuelve a hacer eso y comeremos perro asado para cenar!”_ Spitting out in Ferelden for good measure, “ _Flaming_ dog!”

Wading to the bank, growling fit to outdo the Mabari, he thought, _I should just kill the damn thing._ Giving himself a shake and wiping off droplets from his skin then bending to grab his tunic, Zevran ignored the happy barking as Ser Prize leaped around his mistress in the water. It was when he was mostly dry that Zevran remembered the reason for seeking out Lahar earlier. He made a face as he thought sourly, _Damn me and my oaths, damn all women, and damn all dogs to the Pit._ He glanced over his shoulder. _No help for it. I must inform her that we have a role to play and find a way to explain why._

Dressing in his clothes and leaving off the armor, Zevran sat down to wait.

XXX

“Wait, what?” Alistair's mouth was hanging open as they all stood off to the side in a secluded area of the camp. “No, no no no no nooo. This...this is a bad idea,” he said vehemently, shaking his head and hands back and forth. The Templar was white-faced in shock. “This is a very bad idea. This is so bad that I...I don't have words for it. Tell them, tell them it's a bad idea, Wynne, Leliana.” No one spoke up as Alistair searched frantically for support, “Sten? _Morrigan_? Somebody? Anybody?”

Beside Zevran, Lahar sighed, “I don't see as there's any choice, Alistair. We need help, and these...these people need help here, too. If we help them, then...”

“As we say in Antiva, I scratch your back, you scratch mine,” Zevran interjected, having already convinced Lahar that this charade was the only remotely safe course of action. Now it was time to get everyone else on board. “If you would like to go against an entire clan of very desperate elves, be my guest, dear Alistair. Mark my words, that is what will happen if we do not play by certain rules. And we are working with a very large handicap – being that you are human and all.”

Wynne was suspicious, and her tone said it for all the world to hear, “You have yet to tell anyone as to how you know those rules yourself, Zevran. Or to say what benefit you gain from this ruse.”

He bowed deeply at the waist, playing his part to the hilt, “Dearest Wynne, my lovely Warden's desires are my own. I have vowed to follow her until such a time as she releases me. I serve her whims and fancies, and do all that I may.” He added, waggling his eyebrows up and down, “And some things that I may not, as well.”

“Zev knows the Dalish better than any of us, and so far it has kept us from having too many problems here.” Lahar crossed her arms, staring at each member of the party coolly, “He's right. To get out of this we have to play by their book. I'm an elf, I'm a mage, and I'm a Grey Warden, but that doesn't automatically afford me the respect that one would think it should. Not with these folk, at least.” Zevran relaxed as Lahar explained the logic in ways each could understand, “The code of conduct is only being held in place because crossing a fellow Dalish who is clearly strong is nigh unthinkable and has nothing to do with how well armed we are, or my status as a Warden. Zev being Dalish...”

“But he's a _Crow_! “ Alistair protested, jabbing a finger in the half-Dalish’s direction.

“My mother was Dalish, and I lived amongst them long enough to learn their laws, and pick up a few things.” Overriding Alistair was a chore. The young man wouldn't, or couldn't, accept another male being near Lahar, at least not one who gained any bit of her time. That brought another idea to Zevran’s mind, “And Alistair, a warning: do not look at Lahar as you have. Not where the Dalish might see it. Any man who is a threat to my claim on Lahar, in their eyes, is someone to be... _handled_. True, I would not mind handling you or anyone else for that matter...” gesticulating, Zevran had to throw in something to pick at Alistair’s prudishness, not that the oaf would be observant enough to pick up on it, “In a purely two or more consenting adults fashion, but that is not what they would require of me. The Dalish live by different rules than I do. If I did not defend my territory as they believe a man should, then I forfeit my claim.”

Morrigan came to the rescue, which was somewhat unexpected, “It does not matter much at all what must be done, so long as we are able to quit this place with the goal achieved. Never mind these piddling details, Alistair. If you give anything they perceive to be a challenge and Zevran doesn't kill you outright, or if you kill him instead, we lose any buffer of respect we may have had. And then I will laugh as the Dalish do what they do best to human interlopers...and I shall take my leave.”

Zevran had his doubts that Morrigan would just leave without Lahar at least if that were to happen, the two were as close as sisters. _Then again, some of the sisters I have known have gladly stabbed each other in the back over nothing more important than a pair of shoes...._

“And then the Archdemon is still alive, a darkspawn horde bears down upon Ferelden, and all that we’ve accomplished so far is pointless.” Zevran added with a smirk, “Is that simple enough for you, my dear Alistair?” 

Sounding very put upon and throwing his arms in the air, Alistair replied, “Ugh, fine. Have it your way. But when this all explodes in our faces, don't say that I didn't warn you.”

 

XXX

Tossing his pack into the _aravel_ , Zevran motioned for Lahar to remain where she was. “Stay by the door, if you please, _preciosa_. I must play my part as the overprotective husband correctly, yes?”

Mostly empty, the _aravel_ had seen better days, the overhanging hide roof showing thin patches. Climbing atop one of the built in, folding tables – after checking it for strength – Zevran ran the tips of his fingers along the seams that held the canopy to the wall. One of the bolts was loose, but unless a sirocco were to suddenly materialize out of nowhere, their ceiling would be sufficient. Falling to a squat, Zevran left no nook or cranny overlooked. 

Satisfied and smacking the dust from his hands, Zevran turned to his companion, “In disrepair, but sturdy so long as no one expects this to last another decade before being overhauled.”

“Zev, how do you know so much about the Dalish? You mentioned before that your mother was of the free peoples, but...” The pretense of the fearless leader dropped from her face, to be replaced with open curiosity.

 _It is frightening to realize that she is so young. So strange to be able to tell the differences in her now, to be able to separate her outward facade and expressions from what is actually going on in that head._ Or it may be because Lahar knew that Zevran expected nothing of her, unlike the others, and could simply act as she willed without worrying about criticism on his part. Of course, Zevran never expected anything of anyone other than for them to do whatever they felt was in their best interests.

Finding the bed-cupboard Zevran flipped it outwards, setting the anchoring supports in place, “When I had finished my apprenticeship as a Crow and entered the intermediate ranks, I decided to leave to find my mother's people. Go back to my roots and possibly to make a connection to who and what my mother had been. I know not why I did it, only that I did.” Deciding that the bed would take his weight and Lahar's, he patted it, the motion creating a puff of dust. “They must not have moved in a _very_ long time for this _aravel_ to be so underused. Mm.”

“You're right. This place...I didn't think that in some cases our people truly were....” leaning against the door, eyes downcast, obviously searching for a word to describe the straggling band that wasn’t too derogatory.

“Primitive,” he supplied, nodding agreement. “Primitive, yes. Simple – not at all. Their entire existence is focused on holding onto the past, not moving forward. Of course they are primitive in many things, barbaric even. But they are,” he paused, thinking about the kind face, soft blue eyes and silver streaked red hair that belonged to the woman who took him in as a son, “...many of them are more giving in nature than a Chantry charity pretends to be. I was taken in and given a name, a home, a family.”

It felt as if the memories should still pain him, but they didn't. Not at all. There was only a sadness in him for the old huntress Arainai when he gutted her. That still gave Zevran a strange sensation that not even the _Culminacion_ had been able to erase. _Foolish woman, she should not have tried to stop me from leaving. She forced my hand... If I had not done it, Taliesin would have._ The thought brought no comfort. He had been all set to simply leave with his friend and mentor without a fight in hopes that the Crows would not punish the clan of hunters and gatherers for Zevran's stupidity. But Arainai had to follow, had to try and ‘reason’ with Zevran, to tell him that he had a home and a place as a son. A whoreson who had never known family, safety, and value – who had never slept a full night without having to worry about attack – was forced to kill one of the very people who had so willingly given him those gifts.

“What was your name before?” Lahar was seated now, their shoulders touching in a companionable way, free of any sexual tension – a rare occurrence in Zevran's life.

“Hmm?” he replied, drawn from the memory, “Oh. My name has always been Zevran, but like any whorehouse boy I did not have a second name, a family name. Arainai was a mother to me, teaching me how to use a bow, to hunt in the woods, to call allies to battle when I had need. I learnt of the _Vir Tanadahl_ while sitting at the campfires. There, I was just another person, not a Crow, not a whoreson, just a simple youth.” _Why am I telling her this?_ Yet the words spilled out of their own accord, “Until then I thought because I was an elf that I was not as good as a human, no matter that I held more promise as an assassin than any other I knew. When I returned to Antivan society I had a new outlook – I was simply Antivan. My race is a secondary thing, not something to fight against, nor something to be overly proud of. Tell me, do you think Alistair is proud to be human? These Dalish, they are too proud of themselves. They work too hard to be what they were rather than what they could be now. They forget that they are alive and should fight for their own futures instead of running and clinging to their pasts.”

“Maybe so, or maybe they just think they're staying neutral and true to who they are,” beside him, Lahar pursed her lips, playing with an enchanted ring on her smallest finger.

“I lived amongst them for two years, _princesa_. They think that they are resisting. What they are _doing_ is dying out,” he said, waving a hand to take in the clan that was outside the _aravel_. “Look at them. This _aravel_ has not moved in years, I wager. There are less than two hands of children out there, and perhaps only another hand of women. They die at the hands of their own pride, at their need to be _elvhen_ and not just people.”

Lahar rose, changing the subject rather than giving further debate, “It's been a stressful day, and we need some sleep. So,” she paused, making a motion at his clothes, “off with the shirt so I can check how you're recovering and pour some more mana into you.”

Zevran did as she said, speaking with a smirk, “If you want to see me without anything on, _princesa_ , you need only ask rather than rely on this chicanery.” 

“I've seen plenty of people nude, Zev,” she replied, rummaging through her pack and retrieving a few potions and a large injury kit. “I don't see what the fuss is about – it's just skin. Everyone has it. Why does anyone find it enticing?”

“Hmm, why indeed? But perhaps you should take in the entire picture rather than view everyone with such a clinical eye,” he said, unlacing his trews. “Beauty is everywhere to be seen, _bonita_. You only need look.” He ran the back of his hand down Lahar's cheek, now bare to her gaze.

“There's ugliness everywhere too, and pretty shells hide ugly centers.” The hardened edge in Lahar's voice struck Zevran all wrong, making him wonder if she meant someone else – or maybe him?

When she was done and Zevran had goosepimples all over, bones aching from the healing spells, she set out their bedrolls on the mattress. Rubbing his hands on his chest and stomach, Zevran worked the blood back to the surface until the cold was gone. A small shiver wracked him one last time as he thought of the casual way Lahar could wield power. _It is no different from me,_ he thought, recalling the way she tracked his movements when practicing _Baile de Muerte_ with him. _Death comes just as surely from my hands as hers. Except..._ his musings faltered as he fingered the scar tissue that marred the muscled perfection of his right side, _Life comes from her hands as well. I have no such gift to offer anyone._

Seeking distraction from his train of thought, he turned to her. “You're wearing that to bed? Lahar, _pequeña_ , you have me at such a disadvantage, here I leave myself open for perusal, and you – you wear so much. How can it be comfortable?”

“Don't pretend you didn't get a good look today,” she replied, loosening her hair. She pulled a brush from her pack and began to ease the tangles from the strands, but Zevran neared and took the paddle from her grasp. He stroked the brush through her hair, lifting a patch so he could work through a nasty knot while Lahar made a sound of contentment, “Oh, that's no fair. You're always so warm, and now you're doing this, and oh, you're really good at that.”

Smirking, Zevran leaned down to blow on her ear, causing the mage to shiver, “I am 'really good' at many things, _princesa_.”

“Mph, fine. You get cooking duty next, because I think Alistair is trying to kill me with his...stew.” Zevran thought the Warden might be joking, but he couldn't be sure, “And try not to add any deathroot. It gives Ser Prize gas so bad it would kill anyone in five leagues.”

Choking while continuing to brush the Warden's hair, “Surely you jest?”

“What? I mean it! He got into a batch this one time right after I got him, and it was so horrible that it was a relief whenever we encountered darkspawn. They smelled less.” Seeing that she was completely serious, Zevran could only stare in shock as she went on, “At first I thought it was just Alistair being a stinky _shem_ or something, but when he kept trying to get ahead of Ser Prize, I figured out that it wasn't him at all. Well, that and Ser Prize's constant gorging on any of the plants we could find.” 

“I shall...keep that in mind. If I am to poison the pot as it were, then I will have to utilize something that does not result in...such unpleasant odors,” he replied, deadpanning. “After all, my sense of smell is delicate, I would not relish such an affront, nor wish it upon you either.”

Now Lahar did laugh, tipping her head back. “Good,” she said with a jaw cracking yawn. “Sleep now, I think.” Another yawn. “Mm yes, sleep is a good idea.”

“Are you quite sure, _bonita_?” he asked, setting the brush aside to free his hands so that he could braid her hair. It was settling into an easy familiarity. 

“Very. I'm completely done in, Zev. I just want to get warm and close my eyes, not think about anything, and hope that the nightmares don't come tonight,” she replied, uncurling from the bed and plucking at her robes, which Zevran helped her remove. He was unsure as to what her intentions were until she picked up the shirt he had worn that day. She noticed his quizzical stare and supplied, “I think it's because you smell nice, like spices and leather, and I feel warm sleeping beside you.” She paused, pulling the fabric over her head, covering the little unbleached linen shorts and breast binder she wore, “Ever since I was little, I was always cold, and now, for once, I'm warm. It's...nice.” She must have caught his odd look and fingered the hem of the shirt, still only partly on. “You...you won't mind if I wear this, will you? You get all tense if I get too close when you sleep, so maybe if I wear this I won't need to crowd you so much.”

A part of Zevran was inordinately pleased at the thought of Lahar wanting to be enveloped in his scent, while another warned him to back away quickly. _She has no nightmares with me near,_ he thought, muscles twitching. Zevran covered the lapse of facial control by pulling the hem of the shirt down to cover her. _Need. I fulfill a requirement she has. It is a weakness I can exploit to my own ends._ In fact, it was exactly what Zevran had been looking for since he swore that oath of service to the Warden. An easy way to gain the upper hand, to strengthen his position as more than a prisoner and slave. 

Joining her on the bed, sliding under the blanket of his bedroll, “Crowd as much as you wish, it is no burden for me, _encatadora mia_. It would please me to no end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'S' after a word is for Spanish, 'E' is for elvish  
> pequeña, S – little one  
> Anath ara, E – greetings, informal  
> Abelas, E – sorry  
> preciosa, S – good looking  
> Andaran atish'an, E – greetings, formal   
> da'len, E – little one  
> lethallin/lethallan, E– kinsman, brother/sister  
> ma nuvenin, E – as you wish  
> asha, E - woman  
> cabron, S - asshole  
> puta, S - bitch/whore  
> ciertamente, S - certainly  
> princesa, S – princess  
> bonita, S - beautiful  
> Vir Tanadhal, E – elvish practice, translates into 'three trees'  
> encantadora, S - enchanting  
> Vuelve a hacer eso y comeremos perro asado para cenar = Do that ever again, and we will be eating dog for dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Amku of course, and Spanish corrections come from Ilargi Iluna, and I’m grateful to them both for all their insights and help. Knowing I have Amku at my back makes writing much easier.

_“Good evening.” Crow was flipping a dagger into the air and catching it, the meaty thwack of handle hitting palm repeating itself over and over again. “Zevran, how are you handling facing your people?”_

_“They are not my people, Crow,” he replied with a shrug. The repetitive sound of the weapon was as close to comforting as raindrops on a roof was for some. “And since you are the one who controls the dream, you know all that there is to know.” He paused, “And even if you do not you can find out. Whether you have my permission or not.”_

_Crow appeared to think about that for a moment. “Yes, I can look into you and see all that is there, but have you given any_ thought _as to why you are here? Why I would bother looking into you, to measure your worth?”_

_“No, and again that is a pointless question as you already know the answer,” Zevran replied, hooking his arms behind his head. He leaned back to look at the sky, and wished he hadn't. “Maker's Breath!”_

_Overhead, twisted shapes resolved themselves into an upside down mountain, warped spires stabbing downwards and...things slithering over every surface. The sheer size of the construct was too much for Zevran to take in, and each warped detail that presented itself shivered into another shape and meaning even as understanding almost dawned. One of the people-like shapes stopped in its tracks and looked in what would be 'up' for it. Straight at Zevran. Stumbling, unable to rip his gaze away, Zevran screamed, slimy fingers digging into his brain leaving a foul wake. A hand covered his face, blotting out the horrifying visage, and the spell was ended._

_Rage, hate, loathing, unreasoning insanity had been contained in that thing as it locked onto his mind._

_“What was that?” he whispered shakily, trembling against the sudden supporting body standing next to him._

_“You already know, Zevran,” the hand was still covering his face, Crow's voice coming from everywhere, “but you have gained its attention. It is no longer safe here for you. We will meet again when I have found a new shadow to hide in that is fit to bring you to.”_

_Scared, like he was still a small child, reaching out blind, Zevran grabbed at Crow. “Do not...do not go. Do not make me see that again!” Desperately Zevran pressed forward, gaining a grip on Crow's wrist and unwilling to let the only barrier between him and the abyss overhead slip away. “I do not want it to see me!”_

_With a surprising amount of gentleness Crow said, “I will do what I can, Zevran. I am not an evil man.”_

_Frantic thoughts filled him,_ But you were once – you are a Crow. The things you had to do to get there! _They flitted like hungry ghosts or the heart of a trapped bird in his brain._

_“I believe Lahar would say that all things serve a function,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice, clearly having read Zevran’s mind. “And am I more or less evil than you? Would you like a tally of every single thing I have done compared to a list of yours? You did evil things at points, even though you did not wish to, even though you knew they were wrong, and yet you chose to commit those crimes. Not because you absolutely had to, but because it was convenient. Even the people you actually cared for were among your targets. Me? My crimes were truly impersonal as I never drew a blade against anyone I knew well enough to have in my heart. So do your crimes hold more or less weight in comparison to mine?”_

_“I...I am not certain,” Zevran admitted. Suddenly, Crow's touch dissolved, and the Fade blew up and outwards before sucking itself into a fine point and disappearing, leaving Zevran floating in nothingness._

_There was little Zevran could do but think. There was no sound, no sensation, only the voices of memory._

XXX

Zevran awoke to a frigid nose squashed against his stomach, the sensation somewhere between pleasant and irksome. Eyes popping open, Zevran stared at the ceiling until it registered that there was taut hide overhead, the smell of wood and fresh snow, and the sound of people moving around outside. Blinking several times, he glanced down to see Lahar's upper body wrapped around his torso – which would be the source of the crisp perfume and cold nose – face pressing painfully against the slowly regenerating organs while her legs were twisted this way and that. At some point she must have kicked free of the blankets, and her bare limbs were splayed in a most unladylike fashion. Puzzled by the position, he wondered, _How did I not wake up from all the thrashing necessary for her to move_ this _much?_

She released a garbled groan and scooted until his too-large shirt rode all the way up, giving a grumpy shudder when the air hit her skin. Mewling at the cold, Lahar made some sort of strange shiver-shimmy-shake that resulted in Zevran having the air squeezed out of him as she wrapped her entire petite body around his frame. Slim the young mage may be, but the slender limbs held more strength than one would think, which was something Zevran would be willing to attest to if asked as the stranglehold increased before easing.

 _If her knee was not putting so much stress upon certain areas – this would almost be promising,_ he thought, shifting his hips in a vain attempt to dislodge Lahar. Wincing, Zevran debated the best way to extricate himself from the situation, _Wake her up, tolerate what is going on, or Plan C?_ 'Plan C' consisted of ignoring his discomfort and running a hand over the soft, round shoulder that protruded from the collar of his shirt. He noticed vaguely how starkly her skin contrasted with his. The course of action wasn't serving to make Zevran more comfortable, but he supposed that wasn't really the point. It was merely enjoyable to touch someone and have no claims for attention being placed upon him in doing so. 

The feeling was foreign so it took several minutes to identify it and with a start of surprise Zevran put name to the warm amusement. Pleasure – and that was the only word the elf had for it. It was not the sort that the Antivan was familiar with, no. It was not at all like the bolts that would wrack his body and leave it shaking after a kill or sex. Nor was it like the pleasure of taking note of the perfect balance in a blade or complex poison. It was pleasure certainly, a kind of relaxed thing that expected nothing at all, demanded nothing to intensify it, but only existed in that particular moment that was between laughter and peace. Not that Zevran was entirely sure what peace was either. Peace for Zevran had come only when waiting to make a move on a target, or in the stillness that was never actually still right before letting an arrow fly into a mark. Or in those silent hours when sleep would not come, even when alone in the dark, gaze tracking things unseen and unreal for no reason at all.

In truth, Zevran forgot to breathe, all the carefully laid plans that usually spooled out in the confines of his mind ceasing their constant clamor. A meditative quietude held their combined heartbeats, breathing and the random sound outdoors in a musical counterpoint to the realization. Lahar was asleep and thus making no requests as another would if they had been awake, and Zevran himself desired nothing from the Warden, finding himself oddly _content_ with the uncomfortable position they were in. Any wish to move, to speak, to alleviate the hunger pang in his stomach, or to drag the thrown blankets back over them was unimportant, mitigated by Zevran’s not wishing to break the spell of the rare moment.

Startling as the epiphany was, Zevran wasn't disturbed – ‘take your pleasures where you can’. It was a motto that had enabled him to survive to this day. Life was like a string of pearls, each pearl representing an experience, good or bad, mundane or extraordinary, that built up and increased the size of the strand that was only complete upon death. Crow, as Zevran had taken to calling the Fade-entity that plagued his sleep, might have something to do with how he was feeling, but Zevran was uncertain. It was as though the nightly forays into Crow's demesne had given Zevran some ability to appreciate things more fully than he could remember doing before. Perhaps he should be grateful, but Zevran was yet unable to connect to that emotion, only able to present a patently false veneer of it. 

“Mmmmph.” Lahar's head rolled on her neck, serving to rub her cheek against the large scar covered dent in his side, “You're com-for-table,” she said groggily, the word drawn out and broken with more rubbing. 

“That is not a description usually reserved for one such as I, _bonita_ ,” he replied, lips quirking.

Lahar picked her head up only to let it drop back down. “But you are. I swear, I could stay right here all day. Let the darkspawn go to the Pit on their own.” Like a sleek cat Lahar stretched, untangling herself from him, adjusting his shirt absentmindedly. “I'm sorry, though. I told you I wouldn't crowd you.”

“And if I may remind you, my dear Warden, I did offer my services for bed warming,” he said, curious as to how Lahar would react now. They had to play the part of Bonded pair, even though their sleeping arrangement was no longer needed to keep him from death's door. “And I also mentioned last night that you could crowd me all you pleased.”

“You're not a thing for me to use as I please. You're a person, Zev, not a chunk of meat to be taken advantage of,” she said, nose wrinkling. In the night much of her braid had come loose and she was pushing it from her face. “But if I had known earlier how warm you were, I would have been much more tempted to jump on you as a heat source and pillow.”

“Ah, so that is the only thing you wish of me then? If I had but known, I would have been happy to oblige. As you know, I am glad to offer any such services to you and would be most pleased if you avail yourself of them,” he replied, back cracking as he worked the kinks out. “And as I swore an oath to serve all your whims, you could certainly treat me as....”

Lahar interrupted, cutting the air with sharp chop of hand, “ _No_. You are a _person_ , and an oath of loyalty is not the same as trading one sort of slavery for another!”

“As you say, my Warden,” he said, surprised by the vehemence in Lahar's bearing and seeking to mollify her sudden anger.

With jerky movements the mage dressed as he watched, the momentary flash of bare back revealing muscles standing in stark relief. His words had only appeared to fuel her agitation. In past situations when a lover had been so irate, Zevran would soothe them with words or touches. But Lahar wasn't a lover. _Not yet_ , added that niggling voice that reminded Zevran that his place would always be precarious unless he secured it. And sex was the easiest way to bind another to him. Some wanted him to be pliant, others wanted his smoothness, his violence, or his danger, but they would all fall to his skills in seduction. No one had ever resisted actual attempts, not when he applied himself. 

Lahar paused and turned to glance at him, as though she were going to say something, but she shook her head and gathered her wits. “I'll sleep on the floor tonight,” she said, completely serious.

“Excuse me?” he laughed, throwing back his head unable to believe his ears. He scoffed, “You will do no such thing, _princesa_ , lest you forget the first night we shared quarters. I startle easily. We either sleep together or not at all.”

He didn't bother to point out the minor fact that they _had_ to share the _aravel_ for the sake of appearances and for the good of the group. Zevran was sure that was the only reason that kept Lahar from doing anything rash. It was clear that his little mage wanted to do something foolhardy, but was too logical to do so.

“Fine, but...but don't do that again,” expression stern, hands on her hips.

Puzzled now, not exactly understanding what particular thing it was that Lahar didn't want him to do, he asked, “And which action is it that displeases you that you are so....”

“Zev, don't just...offer yourself up on a platter like you're not valuable beyond what you can do for me. There was enough of that in the Tower,” she answered, speaking over him a second time in so few minutes.

It was also the second time Lahar had mentioned her life in the Tower, but it was still rather telling. Joining her beside the exit of the _aravel_ , Zevran gambled, laying his hands on her shoulders and forcing Lahar to turn and look up into his face. The stony, calculating mask she had worn when they first met was still there when they weren't alone, but here, with no others to watch them, Lahar had dropped the pretense. She was still unreadable for the most part, but the habitual lack of response to much of what went on around her was currently overlaid by something Zevran couldn't put his finger on. 

“Ah, I knew I would not be the only one to see your beauty, _preciosa_.” His words were flirty, but Zevran didn't allow the seductive caress to enter the statement. “And I am aware that I have not been the only one to have intruded into your...” he paused, seeking a politic way of touching on the night of forceful overtures, “personal space, but tell me, _princesa_ , tell me something of these _offers_.” 

“No.” The implacable and silent mask fell over her face, all openness shuttered and a wall thrown up between them with the finality of the trap door of the gallows opening.

He pursed his lips. “Go lie back down,” he urged, “You are in no condition to play your part as a happily wedded wife at this moment.”

“I can pull my own weight,” she said frostily. Zevran knew Lahar could and probably had in the past without any help from him.

He sighed, “Then allow me to dress and follow after I have been outside for several minutes, _pequeña_.”

Deciding on how he would present himself, Zevran dug in his pack looking for the worn, butter soft golden brown leather trews he used for riding. Shaking out the wrinkles and tugging them on without his usual sensuality, Zevran left the top lightly laced and forwent boots. Making sure his hair was appropriately tousled, Zevran took a bracing breath. _Hurrah for appearances, and into the mouth of the beast I go_ , he thought, knowing that he had to look every inch the newlywed in front of their Dalish hosts or bring down risk of discovery of their subterfuge. _May it choke on me._

“You may wish to look more rumpled yourself, _pequeña_ ,” he reminded Lahar one last time.

The scene before Zevran was not much different than the usual fare for their merry band of strays, everyone sitting around in various states of alertness eating breakfast. Wynne and Leliana were chatting about history, most of which Zevran always thought sounded more like fantasy rather than actual events, at least with how they told it. Sten had his back to the loose circle, always on watch, always wary, Ser Prize lounging next to him, tongue lolling, while Alistair made feeble attempts at drawing the Qun’ari into conversation. Morrigan was leaning over the fire, attired in her scraps and rags while she worked miracles with whatever was on hand for the meal. 

Casually Zevran hopped the rail of the _aravel_ , ignoring the steps, landing with practiced grace. His arrival garnered rolled eyes from Morrigan as she caught sight of him, and Alistair grimaced before focusing on his food as though it were very interesting indeed. Relieved that the Templar refrained from making a scene, Zevran sauntered to Morrigan, accepting the bowl she held with a lazy smile before settling in to eat. At the corner of his vision, Zevran saw several Dalish looking their way, chiefly at him, measuring. _Good,_ he thought, digging into the dried-fruit laden oatmeal, _Take a good long look at me. I do look rather satisfied, yes? As though I spent all night and morning with my woman. Do not question it, do not challenge it. Accept it._

“Lovely Morrigan, your skills in this arena are most excellent,” he said, the complement falling easily from his lips and his voice pitched to carry, “and very welcome. It is just what I need to replenish my energies.”

Leliana suffered a fit of coughing, well aware of what Zevran was implying. Morrigan on the other hand was not quite as perceptive. Either that or she was being obtuse, but Zevran doubted that. There was something about the witch that bespoke a certain inability to deal with interpersonal politics and appearances.

“To be sure it is nothing more than the usual fare,” she replied, brow crinkling with a frown on her very full lips. “And you wouldn't need to replenish anything if you kept all that hot air to yourself. You waste your breath on meaningless compliments, elf, for you'll get no more than your fair share.”

“Ah, but what of Lahar? _Mi pequeña_ is resting, but soon I imagine she will be quite hungry,” he said, plastering on a winning smile.

Wynne was rubbing her temples while Alistair pinched the bridge of his nose, but Morrigan remembered herself finally. “Oh, yes. 'Twould seem I forgot about that. I trust that our fearless leader did get some rest at least?”

Just as Zevran was formulating a response, the hunter he had spoken with the day before, _Galot, that was the dour fellows name,_ intruded on the party's morning routine with several other hunters beside him. _Trouble._ He straightened imperceptibly, hoping no one would act out of turn and praying that the others could control their actions as well as Lahar had earlier.

He waved at the group of elves. _“Anath ara, lethallin._ Would you share this meal with us?”

“You are a fraud.” Galot remained just outside the circle. “You play upon hospitality and lie about being Bonded to the _asha_.”

Zevran’s eyes narrowed. “Such serious accusations, _lethallin._ Are you quite sure you wish to tread this path?”

The elf's voice rose, “I challenge your very right to be here. You are no _lethallin_ of mine, your city ways betray you, _seth’lin_. The _asha_ has no mark on her – the scouts have seen that this is so,” he spoke, openly admitting to the fact that Lahar's bath in the spring was not as private as it should have been, but Zevran had already known that. “There was also no evidence of you joining with her last night. You are false.”

Knowing that the situation could not be diffused, Zevran stood. “She is young, and I am not the sort to force her when she is not of a mind to share herself.” What he spoke were only empty justifications, one last effort to stop the coming bloodshed. 

Such a challenge to his claim couldn't go unanswered, and the Dalish all knew it, as did he. There was no warning, not that Zevran expected any. Such niceties weren't afforded to someone who had been accused of falsity. Galot was pulling his sword free from its sheath when Zevran surged forward, shoving the heel of his palm into the elf's nose. It gave a satisfying crunch as bone was sent into gray matter. Even as his attacker collapsed, Zevran grabbed the partially freed sword in hand, while the three other hunters came at him. Spinning into a low crouch, momentum carried the sword he held in a two handed grip into one elf’s side. Kicking the dying elf away, left hand snatching the falling ax, Zevran turned to meet the other two, dancing to the swaying beat of blood in his head. Feinting right, Zevran closed with the third, engaging the Dalish's swords with Galot's long sword. A dizzying swirling motion and a flick of the wrist had the opponent almost disarmed. The clansman overcompensated, an arm flinging wide, and Zevran took the opportunity to bury the ax in his head. There was the resistance of blade thwacking through bone to land in brain, and Zevran was already abandoning the weapon, leaning down to scoop up another long sword. Zevran watched the fourth hunter with a predator’s eyes, a fine coating of fresh blood on his hands and several spurts on the ground at his bare feet. 

This one was wary now, having seen how quickly Zevran dispatched the first three. Aware that the clan was now paying attention, even Zathrian had come out, and Zevran caught the scent of ice – a clear sign Lahar was about to enter the fray, probably having left the _aravel_ at the first sounds of the altercation – he knew there was not much time left to finish this. Shouting out a manic laugh, he dove straight into his last opponent, recently healed muscles protesting the speed, while he made a set of very large scissors of the long swords as he cut the legs out from under the elf whose life was ended with a last slash of blade.

“What is the meaning of this?” Zathrian was roaring, energy gathering around him like a dark mantle.

Whipping around, Zevran thrust his weapons point first into the ground, crossing his arms at the wrist and making two fists pressed to his chest as he knelt. “They challenged me for Lahar, and as her husband...”

Power hung around the ancient Keeper, held at the ready. “I was told that she does not bear your mark.”

Thinking quickly, Zevran spoke, “Please Keeper, I have been separated from my clan for much time, taken by slavers so many years ago. Once free, I left Antiva some while ago after being unable to rejoin my people. I have only recently claimed Lahar as mine, but with no Keeper nearby to oversee the Bonding... ” Keeping his head bowed, but looking up through his loose blond hair, he continued, “I had hoped to ask this of the first Keeper I could as I knew we searched for the _elvhen_ , but did not wish to impose once seeing the state of the tribe. I did not want to burden my clansmen in their time of need, feeling that once the business with the curse was dealt with would be a better time to make such a request.” The entire clan was watching intently, and Zathrian would not be able to back out of the corner Zevran was pushing him into, “Never did I think it would cause such issues that she and I had not marked each other during the interim. I wish to rectify that. Please, Keeper Zathrian,” he paused, bowing now to touch his head to the ground, “I beseech you to do us this honor.”

“And you, Warden,” Zathrian asked, staring at Lahar. Zevran held his breath, hoping that she wasn't about to ruin all of the work he had just done. “Do you claim this man? Is it your wish to Bond with him?”

Beside him Lahar knelt, joining Zevran and mirroring his pose, her words so smooth that the Antivan couldn’t even tell if she were lying, “I am not Dalish, but I want no other than him. Though I am not your kin nor your clan, I ask this of you as well.”

Zathrian looked like he swallowed something incredibly unpleasant, but no matter the power he held over his tribe, he couldn't act against such an entreaty. Not openly at least. The Keeper still had his own appearances to keep up.

“Very well then. It will be prepared. I trust you will explain to the Warden what this entails,” Zathrian finished with a nod. 

“Yes, Keeper Zathrian,” he replied, touching forehead to ground once more, mainly to hide the triumphant twist of lips that threatened to ruin the moment.

XXX

“This has gone too far,” Alistair whispered, fingers digging into Zevran's bicep as he pulled the assassin aside. “You can't marry her.”

The clan had mostly withdrawn from the end of camp that Zevran and his compatriots had claimed, leaving them to their own devices. And arguments. Zevran could tell that there were still some watchers, but they were not near enough to intrude, merely to keep watch and discourage the group from leaving. Effectively they were being held under an outdoor arrest that they could not win free of easily.

“Oh, I assure you I can, and I shall,” he replied, shaking off the hand. Zevran was deceptively mild, “And you will not say another word about it until we are far from these forests.”

Sten was looking extremely disapproving, more than Zevran had ever seen the large qunari. “We should quit this meaningless course of action and seek the Archdemon. These side excursions are wastes of time.”

Defending Lahar's decision to seek allies, Zevran asked, “The Archdemon, it is a very large high dragon, is it not?” 

As it was a rhetorical question the Qun’ari didn't answer, his glare only intensifying.

“And this Archdemon, it has many hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions of darkspawn at its beck and call, no?” he continued, prying Alistair's still clutching fingers away.

“And it's also in the Deep Roads, somewhere under miles of rock and through twisty tunnels and...” Alistair was almost being helpful, but the Templar shut up when Zevran elbowed him.

“And to fight so many with so few of us would be suicide. It would not work.” He hoped using logic would beat some sense into the huge man. “Would it not make more sense to have an army to field against the darkspawn horde as a distraction whilst we sneak through the lines to find this giant corrupted dragon? The chances of success, my stern friend, increase this way. It may seem like a waste of time, but is it not a greater waste if we fail?”

“This is true,” Sten relented even as he countered, “But this situation, these elves, they seek to kill us. They will not honor their treaties. _Pashara,_ they have no honor and ignore their duties.”

Zevran was glad that Lahar made an appearance when she did, stepping up and placing calming hands on the Qun’ari's forearms. “This clan is sick, Sten, and if we were to kill them all for no other reason than that they hinder us, then we are derelict in our duties and besmirch _our_ honor. If we cure this sickness then we have gained an ally. And other Dalish will hear of it, word will be sent out, and more of them will come to bolster our numbers.”

“Your will then, _kadan_ , is to wed this...” his chin jerked towards Zevran, “Vasheden'bas?” If Zevran were any other man he would have been offended 

Alistair tensed at the reminder. “Yeah, what he said.”

Lahar sighed, a sound that made her seem so much older, “It gives us protection, and that too is my duty. I have to ensure we survive this trial, and if that means I have to marry Zevran to be conferred that protection, then I will. It isn't as if it's a real marriage anyway, just something for...convenience to get us a step closer to the Archdemon.”

“We have a saying in Antiva, that it is a long walk to death,” flashing a momentary smile. “Unless of course you take a wrong step and the fall is, how you say in Ferelden? Ah, yes, a doozy.”

XXX

The women were talking amongst themselves, minus Lahar, about the situation. Wynne was clearly trying to wrap her mind around everything, and Zevran could almost sympathize. Zevran was sure she had been a firebrand in her own right when she was younger by all appearances. She was still a handsome woman and strong willed, but this was not an instance where book knowledge and magic would be of any help. 

“Marriage to that scoundrel for no other reason than it's expedient. I just do not see the wisdom in this.” Zevran listened in, of course, as he went over his vials of antidotes. It wasn't like the mage was trying to be quiet. 

“Morrigan, you're closest to Lahar...” Leliana's voice was soft, dripping concern.

A disgusted huff, “I know where you both are going and I do not care for it. If you believe that I could dissuade Lahar, then you are mistaken.” Zevran glanced their way to see that Morrigan was not a willing participant, having been cornered by the other two. “Lahar is her own person, and I am not one to try and convince someone once her mind is made up. 'Tis foolish and you are all blind if you cannot see that from the courses available, this is the best one.”

“Morrigan, surely you must realize that he is a danger to her,” Wynne said patiently, as if she were speaking to a child, moving to lay a hand on the Wild Witch’s shoulder which was brushed off. 

_Or one of her apprentices,_ Zevran thought, _I have seen her try that with Lahar. Not that it worked in her favour then either._

“Think what he may do to her, Morrigan. I know something of this Bonding ritual. The pair go off on their own for several days of seclusion...”

Having set aside his work, Zevran had slunk up to the trio, draping his arms over Wynne and Leliana's shoulders. “And mate. Yes, they make mad passionate love to each other until their souls are as one,” he said with a grin. “Ah, of all the ways of marrying another, I do so like the Dalish's method. So very...wild, no?”

The bard shrugged off his arm, making a face, “Zevran, it is rude to eavesdrop on private conversations.”

“Ah, but then it would not be eavesdropping if it were public, correct?” he replied with a wink. “By the way, my sweet ladies, I do have a suggestion if you worry for _mi pequeña's_ safety so much.”

Wynne was looking at him with suspicion, not having removed his arm from her shoulders. “And what, dare I ask, would that be?”

“Since it is in our good witch's nature, and I hazard the guess she was planning on it anyway,” he said, sidling closer to Wynne. “Perhaps she could watch from afar so as to ensure my good, as it were, behavior.”

Throwing her hands in the air, Morrigan huffed, “Yes, everyone rely upon Morrigan. Am I to be some nursemaid then? Will I next have to tie Alistair's shoes, mend Leliana's undergarments, and take up making soft mash for those too old and feeble to care for themselves?” 

The women scowled, clearly angry, which Zevran compounded by grabbing both ladies' bottoms. This action caused Wynne to crack him on the head with her staff before walking off regally, muttering under her breath, and Leliana to stand and stare before she too fled. Watching them go with no hint of remorse while rubbing the sore spot on his crown, Zevran hid a smile behind his other hand.

“You are a most vile little man, elf,” Morrigan said, tinkling laughter softening the words.

“And I trust you will be keeping an eye on the Warden. We will be very exposed in this ritual, quite vulnerable. I expect that you will be watching me like a hawk, yes?” he hummed. Not needing to hear agreement, but seeing it in the Wild Witch's eyes, he continued, “But it is not I you will need to watch so closely, lovely Morrigan, but the other watchers.”

“I will never understand you elves,” she said, snorting indelicately.

“They are desperate, Morrigan. Can you not smell it?” He sniffed the air in demonstration. “And our sweet Warden, she is a tasty morsel to them that they covet. She is a woman, a real one.” Morrigan scowled, and Zevran smiled. “You human women, they want nothing to do with. A Dalish woman has rights, and a woman of the Alienage can earn those same rights if she is strong enough. But an adult, a _sullied_ one. One who has been touched and is no Dalish at all. All she has is the strength of the man who claims her. And is it not true that a mage will likely breed true or have the talent crop up a generation or two later? Ah, such a prize. One who has no rights, cannot earn them, whose offspring will make the clan stronger as well as any man powerful enough to take her. Yes, very enticing for a people who are dying out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S is for Spanish, E is for Evlish, Q is for Qunari
> 
> bonita (s) – beautiful  
> princesa (s) – my sweet  
> preciosa(s) – good looking   
> pequeña (s) – little one  
> Anath ara (e) – informal greeting  
> lethallin (e) – cousin/kin, (masculine), lethallan (feminine)  
> seth’lin (e) - thin blood  
> asha (e) - woman  
> vallasin (e) – blood writing/tattoo  
> elvhen (e) - elves  
> Pashara (q) - enough  
> kadan (q) – where the heart is  
> Vashaden'bas (q) – literally crap/trash thing/foreigner, I had to come up with this insult by stringing Vashaden and 'bas together, as here was no insult in Qunari listed on dragonagewiki that would suit. It is intended as a 'shit head' or 'stupid loser' sort of thing.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of drug use and various abuse

Lahar betrayed no nervousness, if she felt it at all. As they knelt facing each the other, not even he could tell if his mage was hiding anything. Zevran had only explained in part what would happen, just the surface of the ritual. They couldn't afford for her to balk, and Zevran was sure she would have if he went into detail. In the time spent with the wild clan in Antiva, Zevran had seen several of these Bondings take place, at least the public aspect of it. Arainai had told him more in veiled phrases. As for the rest, Zevran had pieced it together from what he knew of how people were, both good and bad. The only difference that would be notable in this ritual would be that instead of being in Antivan, the prayers would be said in Ferelden, which would take away some of the musical quality in Zevran's opinion.

Zathrian took Zevran's left hand, laying a long shallow cut on the palm, “Elgar'nan, he who is of sun and earth, the father of all things, give blessings of strength to you, who are a man of the Dales.” The Keeper held Zevran's hand over two cups, letting the blood drip into them, mixing with the herbs that sat in the bottom, “Mythal, she who was born of earth and sea give blessings of protection and teach you mercy.” Now Zathrian took Lahar's hand repeating the cut. “Falon'Din, one of two who were inseparable show you the way to walk the paths between you both.” Now Lahar's hand was beside his, her blood also added to the mix, flowing freely, “Dirthamen, twin of Falon'Din show you the way to be honest with each other.” Both Lahar and Zevran pressed their cut palms to the other's, fingers twining, “Andruil, she who shows us the ways of _Vir Tanadhal_ , may she bless you with bounty, guide your arrows and your words.” The contents of the cups were stirred until blood, herbs and the hot water which Zathrian added were mixed evenly, “Sylaise, may she keep you both well and strong, help you both so that you may heal the other's wounds while keeping to your hearths.” A cup in each hand Zathrian held them out for Zevran and Lahar to take in their uncut hand, while they remained pressing their sliced flesh together, “June give you the ways to keep and hold each other until such time as you part.”

Zevran could tell by the smell exactly what was in his cup, even before he drank it at Zathrian's bidding. Downing the contents while Lahar copied him, Zevran didn't bat an eye. He would not give away his knowledge that the Keeper had given him a hearty dose of a slow acting poison. As an assassin, Zevran knew he could resist most, and it was unlikely the Keeper knew of any poison that he did not. Dalish were too traditional by far, and Zevran was aware of each poison that they employed. Zathrian lay his hands over their entwined palms, which gave a soft glow, healing magic settling over them and sealing the wounds, making them disappear.

 _“Na'nehn,”_ Zathrian said as he backed away, giving them a slight bow.

Lahar and Zevran intoned as they gazed into the other’s eyes, as was expected of course, _“Ma emma lath.”_

And it was done.

Helping Lahar to rise, Zevran maintained his grip on her hand, while Zathrian presented them with two packs, “Now it is time for you to go. The place you were told of is not far and within the scouts' range for your safety so that you may go to your seclusion without worry.”

 _“Ma serannas,_ Keeper Zathrian,” Zevran replied, accepting both packs. He would not allow Lahar to shoulder the burden – she would be feeling the effects soon.

XXX

At some point Zevran had to let go of Lahar's hand; it took too much concentration to pay attention to his footing. The poison and euphoric drugs were a potent mix taken together, and his resistance to poison had decreased in the last few months as he had ceased bothering to keep himself strong against it. It just hadn't seemed important anymore. _Note to self, it is time to take up chewing deathroot again in the mornings once more,_ he thought, and adding as the stray image of Ser Prize fighting him for the root popped into his mind unbidden, _And also make sure that damned hound receives none of it._

Stumbling, Zevran lost his balance, and Lahar was there. “Zev, what's wrong?”

Twisting a smile, he replied, “It does appear that I have not drunk from the poisoned cup enough of recent.” Noting the mounting alarm in her face, the assassin waved it off, “I shall be fine, _pequeña_. Do not worry for me, it just makes things interesting.” 

“He poisoned you...” she said flatly, “And you tell me not to worry?”

“I will be fine, _bonita_ , I know my limits. It is just this particular mix, it has been quite some time since I indulged in it.” He grimaced, _Not since Taliesin forced me to go on that wild bender after...no, no I will not think on that. It is only the drugs. I will not let them affect me like that._ Looking down into Lahar's face, _I dare not._ “The place should not be much farther, once I am able to sit for a bit I shall recover quickly enough,” he said, seeking to reassure her.

Noting that Lahar was showing no signs as of yet, Zevran guessed that Zathrian had given him a much stronger dose. _Probably hoping I would fall apart and succumb more quickly._ Unwilling to give an inch, Zevran forged ahead. What felt like hours of hiking was probably only a fraction of that time, and then Zevran saw the place that was to be their intended haven for the next few days. It had everything - lush green grass that was able to grow because of the hole in the treetop canopy, boulders making an enclosed area on one end, and a stream that poured from a jagged spire of rock to form a pool before meandering on its way further into the forest. It looked more like a painting of a forest scene than a naturally formed one, but in his time among the Dalish, Zevran had come across similar ones – places so lush and lovely that they couldn't be real, but were.

“Hmm, these Dalish demonstrate impeccable taste sometimes, yes?” Zevran said, letting his burdens fall. He began to lower himself to the ground and Lahar grabbed his arm to steady him. “This is as good a place as any to be one with nature, such lovely symbolism.”

Lahar hovered over him, her face pinched with worry. “I'm going to put a regeneration glyph on you.”

Flopping backwards, Zevran chuckled. “I look that bad then?”

“You look...” She hesitated, “You look gray. You're dripping sweat, and your eyes are feverish.” 

He seemed to mull over the list of symptoms, “It is nothing more than a variation of venom, quite common. I will not succumb to it, even though it has been mixed with...other more potent substances.”

“I'm still going to put that glyph on you,” she said again, and her hands went through a series of complex motions, fingers contorting as nimbly as any thief's. The air began to hum, the scent of wildflowers and figs mixing with the already heady perfumes of loam and forest. 

Strength seeped into Zevran's muscles, and the cramping in his stomach let itself be known more by its absence than anything else. A groan escaped him, it was as if a crushing weight had been taken from him as the glyph did its work. Lahar must have been satisfied with the result, for she left to make a sort of camp. Later when he felt up to it, Zevran knew he would have to go over the supplies the clan had provided, but for right now he would merely bask, regaining his strength.

He must have dozed off because he startled when his Warden called his name, “Zev, I've got the bedrolls out, you can sleep there if you need to.”

Picking his head up off the ground, he noted that Lahar was standing a good distance from him – a wise decision on her part, not wanting to tempt fate. “No, _pequeña mia_ , I am much better now.” His senses were hazy, limbs moving slowly to his commands as he pulled himself erect. “But you should tell me how you are feeling.”

She shrugged. “I'm fine, just a little warm. I wasn't expecting the weather to be so...” 

Knowing full well what was beginning to happen, Zevran sighed, “It is not the weather, _mi encantadora_ , but the result of the Bonding.” Noting her confusion, he elaborated, “Do you remember what was in those cups?”

“Blood, some herbs, and not much else,” she recalled, shrugging. “At least it wasn't like the last time I had to drink blood.”

“Oh? You make a habit of consuming life's waters with some regularity then?” he asked, side-tracked, his brow bouncing high. 

“No,” she spat in a most unladylike way, as if she wished to rid herself of something disgusting. “No, I don't. But to become a Warden,” she paused as a shudder crept up her spine, “I shouldn't tell you. Forget I mentioned it.”

 _Ah, so it is working. Fascinating that she is resisting the effects so well,_ but curiosity won out over Zevran's desire to let it lie. “Ah, do not tease me so, _preciosa_. I answer so many of your questions without hesitation. My interest is piqued, do not leave me hanging so.”

“We're getting away from the point,” she reminded him. “You didn't tell me what was so important about which sorts of herbs were used. Oh blood, I'm warm.” She was yanking at the collar of her robes and flapping them to generate a breeze. “Aren't you warm? It's...it's...I'm _warm_.”

“In Antiva, there is a flourishing drug trade,” he answered while assisting in the removal of the collar from her robes, loosening the ties and tossing it aside. “Many of these goods can be used for poison making or for the herbalists' arts. In other cases they are used for intoxication, like one would use drink to become inebriated.”

“He...he _drugged_ us?” She flushed, but settled as more air hit her skin. 

He nodded. “The...euphoric sorts have been utilized in ritual for centuries, perhaps even thousands of years. Dalish are expected to be monogamous without fail. But to ensure that, the Keepers make the pair feel as though they are one. And to do that, the...drugs are administered with much pomp and circumstance to make the first times together so intense that they feel that their souls are joined. It is an experience only repeated if one of the two dies at a later date and remarries.” His fingers rubbed circles on the tops of Lahar's shoulders. “In Antiva we used these drugs often as they make every touch beyond pleasurable.”

Lahar was blinking owlishly up at him. “So we've been drugged so that we'll...consummate this...marriage?”

“And to ensure we do not stray to another’s bed,” he replied with a grin.

“But it's a lie,” she said, pulling away. Zevran allowed his hands to fall. “It doesn't actually do that.”

“No,” he agreed, “it does not. But it is their belief.”

She made a distressed noise, looking entirely too resigned, “Fine, so we'll have sex so that they'll stop harassing us.”

With a certain fatalism, Lahar went to their bedrolls and began to remove her underthings. Zevran was displeased with her actions, and his wandering mind struggled to remember a way to draw her back. 

“Lahar, _princesa_ , you have yet to tell me of the last time you drank such bitter brews,” he wrested the words from his thoughts. 

She paused in the middle of tugging the short robe up to her hips. “I drank darkspawn blood and some lyrium and choked on it. Now...” she said, falling back, eyes clenched shut much like the small fists that were clutching the blanket, “Let's get this over with.”

“We could wait until you are feeling the effects more,” he offered, crossing his fingers that Lahar would be willing to wait. His body might be able to perform the act, but Zevran refused to do so if Lahar was going to treat it as some unwanted chore, which it was in her current mindset. “It will be more enjoyable for you that way.”

“No, I'd rather do this while I've got my wits about me, Zev, so...just...do your thing,” she ground out.

Even from there the assassin could see the careful way his Warden was blanking everything. _This is distasteful, but she leaves me no choice._ Making his way over to the prone mage, Zevran didn't let his gaze stray below her face. It was flushed with the drugs, but at the same time pasty with whatever dread she struggled with. _Which monstrous memory are you facing alone,_ bonita? _And will you use me to add to their numbers?_ Sinking slowly, he sat so he wasn't touching her, but could lean over enough to stroke her cheek. _Will you take away this small barrier I use to keep myself separate from those who defile all they touch?_ He caught her small recoil at his caress. _No, I am not that. I will use you,_ princesa, _but on my own terms._

“I cannot do this,” he said, lying with studied ease, “not under the current circumstances.” He stretched out beside her, head propped in his palm. “I am no construct who can simply perform as ordered whenever you will.” Tracing the bottom seam of pale skin and rosier lip with the tip of an index finger, Zevran leaned close, voice low and sultry, “Relax and rest for a time. Ask me a question, any question you wish, and I shall endeavor to answer it.” Under the careful touch Lahar remained stiff, so Zevran changed the direction of his trailing fingers to take the hem of her robe and pull it down so it would cover her sex, “Come now, surely I can tempt you to ask for some story. Or would you rather tell me one of your own?”

A full body shudder wracked Lahar. “Please, I just want this done in some way that I can control it.”

“So you can deny it happened?” He nodded while musing aloud, “Or maybe to ensure that you will not like it, to paint the act as something horrible and unrepeatable.” Lahar blanched, but Zevran forged on, “Ah, I see. You think that it is possible that if you like this with someone,” he paused, correcting himself, seeking the harshest description, even as his voice dropped lower, “some _thing_ like me...a whoreson, murderer and probable bastard whose hands are drenched in blood, who has dipped his wick in many a place...if you like it with me, _bonita_ , then it may be possible you liked it with those others, hmm?”

“Stop,” she said, rolling onto her side and curling into a ball.

He laid his hand on her hip, massaging the curve. “Allow me to assure you, my lovely little mage, that the act of lovemaking, sex,” lips curling around the word, “ _fucking_ , in all its glorious forms, is wondrous. What you went through, I can guess at, and I shall tell you that those are not the acts I speak of.” Grip firming, Zevran forced her to face him. “Look at me.” 

She only shook her head, knees drawn up tight between them. “No.”

“Then maybe I shall tell you I have been put through the same,” he said with a sigh. 

That statement was unwilling. But there was no taking it back now. _Braska, but if it makes this easier..._

Lahar’s eyes flew open with shock. “What? Why would...”

“To break me? To make me able to withstand anything?” The bitterness in his voice came as a surprise, Zevran had long thought himself over all that. “Maybe the ones who made me what I am were just sick. I do not claim to know their minds or reasons.”

Lahar responded not in words but action, scooting close so that she could wrap her arms around his shoulders. The hug wasn't entirely unexpected, but the hand at the back of his head, cupping it as she pulled him to rest his head on her chest, cradling him, was strange. Submitting to it, Zevran nuzzled a breast, but it struck him as inappropriate to do more than that, not while she was running her fingers through his hair and murmuring meaningless sounds. Realizing that she was trying to _comfort_ him, Zevran knew what real trepidation was, just as he had done earlier that morning when there was no demand made, no measured response required, just a simple connection to another being. 

Struggling not to break away from Lahar's grasp, not to run far, straight into the point of a fellow Crow's blade, Zevran locked his jaw. His skin was crawling. At the moment he would rather be anywhere else. Unlike that morning, Zevran was not in control of the embrace, and thinking muddled by poison and drugs left him scrambling for some method to regain mastery of the situation. Intending to roll away, Zevran broke free, sitting up, only to drag Lahar into his lap. _Andraste's soiled knickers, exactly how much_ did _Zathrian give me?_ The forest sounds were distant rushes, and his vision spun, the creeping sensation that slithered over his flesh turning into liquid fire that demanded Lahar's touch to soothe it. His body was acting of its own volition with little to no input from his brain, arms snaking around Lahar and squeezing her tight enough to make her squeak.

A surprised “Oof!” worked its way out when she thumped him on the back. “Breathe...can't breathe...Zevran!”

Mumbling, relinquishing his desperate grasp to brace his hands on the ground, _“Perdóneme,_ I did not mean to do that.” He ducked his head. “It appears that I am feeling the strength of my dose quite keenly, and yet I find it odd that you are still so much more in control of yourself, _bonita._ ”

Lahar simply shrugged in response. “Lyrium. If we don't learn to keep our heads while using it, we tend to never get elevated in rank.”

“Ah,” he replied, nodding in an understanding he didn't really have. “And see here I was looking forward to you rolling around like a cat in heat. Which is about how I myself feel at this time.”

A giggle that could only be described as girlish escaped her. “Don't you always feel like that?”

“My dear, I cannot always be so, otherwise I would never get any rest,” he chuckled, though it quickly ceased when Lahar began running inquisitive fingers over his ears. 

“How do you do that?” Zevran felt Lahar pushing at his ears which were, if he wasn't mistaken, no longer pressed as closely to his head as usual. In fact, they were probably more horizontal than vertical at the moment. “You almost look like one of the cats from the Tower.”

Wriggling them just to hear her astonished laughter, “Mph, it seems that I not only _feel_ like a cat, but look like one as well. How embarrassing, no?”

“You act like one too,” she said between fits of little snorting giggles, and she cupped the appendages. “And you're practically purring. Does...does it really feel that nice to have them touched?”

 _At least she is feeling something from this,_ he thought, leaning into one of her hands and raising one of his own to stroke her ear. “You tell me. How does it feel for you with the tables turned?”

Eyes drooping closed, Lahar's palms moved to his shoulders, fingers digging in as clearly unfamiliar sensations assaulted her for what was likely to be only the second time in her life. Encouraged, Zevran dared to rush further by tugging her close and dragging his tongue over the delicate shell. A full body shudder accompanied an appreciative moan. Any remotely normal elf's ears would have swiveled and moved about, but Lahar’s did little more than twitch at the gesture.

Suddenly his curiosity was rekindled. “Tell me, _princesa_ , why is it that your ears do not move as mine?”

Her gaze turned dreamy as he continued massaging the sensitive organ, but somehow she managed to find her voice, “When I was little, the man who raised me, he taught me to hide them always.” A slow smile spread across her face as she quoted, “'I've got a secret, and she's got two little secrets, but the big secret is how cute those little secrets are!' and he would pinch my cheeks before plopping a kiss to my forehead.” Lahar leaned into him, the smile slipping away to be replaced by a contemplative moue. “He used to glue them back so that I wouldn't move them, wouldn't make them obvious. Where I grew up, elves weren't welcome, and a human man raising an elf...would have brought too much attention. Maybe even danger,” her voice was distant, foggy. “When I was old enough to keep them back on my own, I did so. Now I forget so much of the time...I don't feel like an elf, I don't feel like a human. So...what am I, Zev?”

She looked so vulnerable, and Zevran had to remind himself that it was the drugs that caused her to open up so much. _It has nothing to do with me,_ he thought, even as he sought what to say to the Warden. _Just a girl right now, just a woman – not a Warden, not at this moment, not here._ But the light was hitting the mage just so, and it made her appear as little more than some strange spirit come to taunt and seduce him. _Not a Warden here with me._

“What are you, you ask me?” He paused, giving it a moment’s thought. “You are yourself I suppose. A Warden, a mage, a leader, a woman, a girl-child, you are...whatever you are. You are a friend to Morrigan, a companion to Alistair, wise for one so young to Wynne, a master for Ser Prize,” he straighted so he could hold her face in his hands, “a leader for Sten.”

More walls dropped as Lahar stared at him, “And what am I to you? A conquest? A chore...a burden?” Her face sad, and she added in a whisper, “Some new slave master to appease so that you're spared the whip?”

 _Too deep,_ he thought, shying away, _She looks too deeply at me._

“I made my pledge to you, my Warden,” he replied, deflecting as best he could considering how difficult any lying was when so intoxicated. “That oath is to you alone. Not the Wardens, not Ferelden, certainly not Alistair. You are the sole holder of that oath. It is with you that my loyalty lies.” He forced a smile as he continued, “I have chosen my master, and that is more than most receive, is it not?”

She sighed and shook her head. “You're not a slave, Zevran Arainai. Surely you can understand that?”

“Oh, quite the contrary, sweet Lahar,” he replied, using her name for the first time, hoping to gain her attention and some understanding, “I _am_ a slave. Purchased for three sovereigns may I remind you. You have seen me nude, yes? Did you not pay attention or at least give me a cursory inspection, _pequeña_?”

“Yes, but I've never ogled you,” she replied quizzically.

He snorted at the mage’s words, “Next time you should. I have many marks on me, do I not? Surely you noticed that at least, _princesa_.”

“Well, yes,” she drew out the last word uncharacteristically, the drugs showing more of their influence. Zevran figured she wasn't aware of it, but for the last few minutes she had been wiggling in his lap, further evidence of her state. “You're lousy with tattoos and scars. And the scars I understand, but the tattoos?” She reached up and dragged a nail down the marks on his cheek. “I don't understand why anyone would do this to themselves.”

Chewing at his lip, anxious, Zevran elaborated; it was obvious how sheltered Lahar was by those statements, “They draw your eye? You look at them, others look at them, yes? Always they look. Many exist to cover...scars.” _Burns, my flesh it was so shiny then, no amount of the healer’s arts could rid me of them,_ seeking to banish that memory. “Some are there for Crow purposes. But many are there by my _choice_.” He grasped her cheeks tighter, leaning so that they were nose to nose. “I have brands, slave brands. No healer can remove them, they forever mark me as chattel. My body is not my own. It has not been something I have ever possessed, even before I was born. I am a slave. No words you say will change this. And anything I can do to myself by my own hand, I do.”

She blinked rapidly, and Zevran watched as some connection was made in her head, but what she said stunned him, “You resist by making yourself...undesirable?”

He recoiled, thoroughly insulted. “You think these marks make me ugly? I assure you, Warden, that others do not feel this way.”

“No, no! I...ah...I said that wrong,” she backpedaled, embarrassed and wincing, but Zevran was offended. No one had ever said such a thing to him before. “I meant...Zev...um. Let me think a moment and I'll figure out a better way to phrase that.”

He turned his face away, and said as evenly as he could muster, “Take all the time you need, Warden. I am, how you say? A captive audience.”

He remained statue-still as Lahar tucked her face into his shoulder, her voice muffled by his hair, “I mean you mark yourself in what has to be a painful manner, doing what for anyone one else would be mutilation. It's like you're saying 'Here I am. I'm marked within an inch of my life. I've taken the scars you would inflict on me and made them beautiful.’ You've taken the ugliness that others would force on you and you take it to the next step, owning it instead of allowing them to dictate the way that they can damage you.” Her lips were soft as petals where they moved against his throat while she spoke, the unintentional kisses sweet, “So you rob them of making you undesirable, you take all the hideousness that they would inflict and use it as a strength, a weapon against them.”

He snorted, but his manner softened and he nuzzled his face into her hair, “And here I thought that tattoos were simply beautiful artwork for my skin, only a minor rebellion.” He wrapped his arms around her, lying back and taking her with him, “My slave pen — for that is what it was, even if it was an apartment — was beautiful enough once I gained status. I could pick which whores I lay with when I had coin, and if I had no coin I could...acquire it by doing favors for wealthy patrons. So long as it was nothing that fell under Crow jurisdiction of course.” 

Lahar burrowed close, her slight weight on him like a bizarre magic wielding blanket. 

“I could choose how I wore my hair and had my pick amongst any willing partners in the Crows. When on the job, I could pick what sorts of poisons or methods I used unless otherwise specified. So deciding where, when and how much extra ink to lay in my skin – I did that and counted myself lucky.”

“That's not a big list of things Zev,” Lahar replied, sounding sad, “I hope you realize that you actually have options here. I don't want a slave. A person should be free to come and go as they please.”

Refraining from pointing out that what she wanted wasn't an option at this time, Zevran gave her a tight smile. He could appreciate the sentiment, as impractical as it was. The Crows would come for him eventually, and he would need protection. And what better protection than a Warden who had others with strength and power who answered to her? 

He began to unbraid her hair. “Be that as it may, _bonita_ , I am still bound by my oath and do not discount it, as it was made of my own choice. I am well contented with such a deadly sex goddess as my mistress.”

Lahar propped herself up on her elbows and searched his face. “I don't own you.”

“Do you not?” Forestalling an argument, he continued, hoping to appease her doubts, “Let me make this simple for you, you hold my oath — one which states that I am your man, without reservation. This means I will do whatever you bid, no questions asked and without judgment. I gain from this as much as you. It is not a contract with one benefactor. In return for my service, I gain my continued breathing, a chance to be free of the Crows. I want for nothing, I have food, I have shelter, I have others who will watch my back in a fight.” He paused, giving her a cheeky grin, “And I have a luscious woman in my arms. What is there for me to complain about, then?” 

Lips puckering into an almost pout, Lahar mulled that over for long minutes, face flushed, body warmer than usual against him, “That sounds more like a friend and companion, not a piece of property, Zev.”

 _A friend?_ Zevran wanted to scoff, but chose not to so as not to alienate her. _Let her keep her illusions then, they do no harm,_ he thought, knowing that her views benefited him more in the long run, even if they were disconcerting to the point of near irritation. How could anyone be so naïve and still be so powerful? The sway Lahar held over others, the determination to do what had to be done, the intimate understanding of why certain actions must be taken, no matter how distasteful — and yet she was untouched by them by and large. There was no railing against the Maker, no anger at what had to be an impossibly difficult burden to carry. Of their group Lahar was the only one who didn't complain — excluding himself, and a thought occurred to Zevran suddenly. _Is it possible that any semblance of freedom from the Tower is so valuable that any trial is worth it?_ Looking at her anew, Zevran couldn't deny that possibility and added it to the growing list of similarities between himself and the tiny mage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next section has sexings.
> 
> E is for Elvish, S is for Spanish. In order of appearance. Also, question, should I keep including a list of words he uses frequently? Like _'bonita', ‘princesa’, ‘preciosa’_ and 'pequeña'? Or should I only include words that haven't been used often, or are new?
> 
> Na'nehn (e) – Your joy (to your joy statement)
> 
> Ma emma lath (e) – you are my love
> 
> Ma serannas (e) – thank you
> 
> pequeña (s) – little one
> 
> encantadora (s) – enchanting, enchantress
> 
> preciosa (s) – good looking
> 
> princesa (s) - princess
> 
> Perdóneme (s) – forgive me, sort of a “excuse me/I'm sorry” statement
> 
> bonita (s) - beautiful
> 
> Reviews are always welcome!


	6. Chapter 6

5 continued  
XXX

Without his noticing, Zevran's hands had been busy, massaging and stroking Lahar up and down, from waist to shoulder and back. Her soft panting, closed eyes and parted lips had brought Zevran back from his rambling thoughts like a slap. _She is lost in it,_ he thought, watching and enjoying the view immensely, _and beautiful with it._ Testing the waters, Zevran rolled his hips upward, grinding against Lahar, who gasped, eyes flying wide. Shifting his grip to her hips, Zevran held her in place as he did it once more, and it was gratifying to see Lahar's eyes roll back in her head.

“Hmm, like that?” he purred. The aching between his thighs intensified, reminding Zevran that he was in just as much need as her. “What say you to another offer?”

“Umm,” she whimpered, her hips wiggling. She made a halfhearted attempt to pull away. “Zev, I don't...I don't think we....We're _drugged._ ”

He laughed before licking from the corner of her mouth to her ear so he could breathe into it. “I believe that is part of the point. Let us enjoy it then, no?”

Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. “I'm scared. It always hurts...”

Hiding a grimace, refusing to be sidetracked by a long discussion that could come later if it was needed, he gripped her arms in his hands, turning her to face him. “I am yours. I will not hurt you. You will like what I do, _hermosa princesa mia_ , this I swear,” he promised, knowing that it would be true.

“But...” She paused, chewing her lip. She sat up, crossing her arms over her chest. “But won't that mean that I deserved what happened before?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zevran forced himself to calm. “No, it will not. You know this logically, yes? Allow me to show you, allow me to worship you as you deserve. I give this to you willingly, _bonita_. It is not done out of duty to my oath, but because I wish it. Understand?”

It looked like she wanted to bolt, but Lahar nodded, “You promise it's not because you think you have to?”

“Yes,” he replied, but truth be told, they did have to. There were watchers in the trees, and no matter how well hidden their location felt, someone would make sure that their marriage was consummated.

“Would you...” She eyed him nervously, fear overriding drug-induced desire. “Would you promise me that you will stop, if...”

He cut her off, prying her arms open. “I swear, Lahar, if you command me to stop I shall. If you _ask_ me to, I may not, but if you command me, I will. You are frightened, but you need not be. I will not hurt you. I have sworn it and will do so again and again, but you will not believe me until I _show_ you.” Dexterous fingers went to the stays of her robe, tugging them loose. “Allow me this, Lahar. Do not make me beg.” He added the last blow, aware of how heavy-handed it was. “Only slaves beg, but I will if I must.”

“You. Are. Not. A. Slave,” she said firmly, though her voice cracked. She was shaking like a leaf as she laid a finger on his bottom lip. “Don't. Please, don't beg.”

Taking that as permission — as it was likely to be the closest thing he would get, until Lahar could accept her own needs as well as his word — Zevran peeled the top half of her robe open. Covering a breast with his calloused palm and kneading the flesh with long fingers, Zevran laid lingering, open-mouthed kisses along the side of her neck and down her collarbone. All the while, he maintained a firm grip around her waist with one arm to ensure that she wouldn't try to run. Scooting closer and crossing his legs beneath her, Zevran leaned her back so her chest would thrust upwards. The mage flailed for a moment while he laughed into a breast. Her hands searched for purchase and, granting mercy, Zevran grabbed a forearm and directed her to grip his shoulders. He lavished her with attention and heeded what made her moan, snaking his tongue around a nipple until it stiffened before carefully nibbling at it.

Lahar's legs wrapped themselves around his waist, her normally frigid body was burning with an intense heat that scalded even through his trews. Every touch was heightened, scintillating from where their bodies pressed, and Zevran, used to passion as he was, couldn't help but feel as though he were the one on the receiving end at that moment. His need was to touch, to push all barriers between his hands and Lahar's body away. The only thing grounding him in reality was the fingers that dug deeply into the meat of his shoulders.

With muscles straining in his back and forearms from supporting her and from holding himself back, Zevran broke from her chest, yanking her upright, before burying his hands in her hair so he could give her a languorous kiss. Keeping his eyes open, but lidded, he watched Lahar for her reactions and saw only surprise that was quickly devoured by desire.

She lacked skill but was far from the worst kisser Zevran had ever encountered, and she at least responded as he drew her deeper. Coppery blood, herbs, and saliva was a taste that should have been unpleasant, but wasn't. Lahar's tongue probed his mouth, the plush, clinging lips sliding over his. Zevran could taste and smell Lahar all around him, her loose hair falling around his head in a dark curtain, the musk of her arousal filling his senses. The need to touch her, to stroke, to sink his fingers deep was overwhelming. Giving in without thought, unable to hold back from that, Zevran rubbed his roughened palm from the outside of her thigh to the beckoning wetness. Muggy heat enveloped his fingers long before he brushed the springy curls of Lahar's sex. Running his thumb over the seam as he continued to twine his tongue with hers. _Soaking, she is soaking wet,_ he thought, not quite coherently, and groaned.

It wasn't until he parted her folds and began to stroke at her opening that Zevran realized Lahar had stopped kissing him.

 _“Pequeña?”_ he asked, pulling away to look in her face, cupping her head. Her eyes were closed, jaw tense. “What is wrong?”

She struggled to speak, her voice nothing but a whisper. “Nothing. Continue.”

Pursing his lips, Zevran shook his head. “That I cannot do, _bonita._ ” An idea coalesced as he moved his hands to the neutral territory of her waist. “I think a change of method may be best for you.”

“You're going to have to touch me eventually, and it'll be necessary for me to let you,” she shrugged. “I can tolerate it.”

“You are not supposed to 'tolerate' it, _pequeña_ , you are supposed to enjoy it,” he replied, struggling with his frustration. Taking one of her hands in his, he continued, “Direct me to where it feels good for you, _princesa_. I will continue to kiss you as you take your pleasure from it. This way you may learn that it is a pleasant experience.” He moved to feather kisses around her face. “And you will be the one in control of your bliss seeking, not I.”

There was some fumbling on Lahar's part as she lay her hand over his, while rising up on her knees, pressing on one of his shoulders for balance. She slowly began returning his kisses, their combined hands on an inner thigh, the muscles becoming less tense by the moment. Relieved that his plan was working, Zevran sighed through his nose, suckling her bottom lip and trying to maintain a soothing build. _No rushing._ It became a mantra in his head as he tried desperately to ignore the fire in his own skin that begged him to rip off his clothes and hers. Years of practice was all that kept Zevran remotely sane when he once again encountered the moist heat of Lahar's flower. His teeth dug into his lip as Lahar's breath came in short pants that verged on growls of determination. At the press of a finger he was stroking her inner walls and they rippled and clenched around the intrusion.

“I can't!” she cried with a jerk, throwing his hand away from her and scuttling backwards.

Resisting the urge to curse, Zevran crawled closer, pulling her to him in a tight embrace. “Shh,” he soothed, massaging her back and shoulders. He tucked his chin over her head. “We shall figure it out. Take a moment, calm yourself. I am not going anywhere, _princesa_.”

After a few hiccuping coughs that left Lahar red-faced, she composed herself. She was tugging on the partial leggings that went with the robes, the ties that held them to her thighs having come loose, the white of the material almost the same shade as her skin. There were no traces of tears on her cheeks, yet her shoulders had shaken so hard Zevran thought that there would be. _Some memories are too painful; tears will not come, no matter the need._

She mumbled into his chest, hiding herself there once more. “Why can't you just take me and get it over with, Zev? Why do you want me to enjoy it when I'm incapable...?”

“I believe you are capable of it, _bonita_ , and in spite of the many wrongs I have done, I do not wish to add to them unnecessarily,” he replied softly, combing fingers through the long waves of chocolate hair. “I will be no tool for further harm against you, for am I not sworn to your service? That would include protecting you even in this, would it not?”

“I suppose,” she said, sounding tired. She was quiet for a few moments, before whispering, “You do realize that I don't even know what I'm doing, right?”

He shouldn't be surprised, but was. “You have never given yourself release?”

“No,” she said quietly, unable look him in the eye. Shame colored her cheeks a dusky pink color. “I could hear others doing it, so I knew that it was...normal...but I never wanted it. Why want what others would always just force on me later?”

Cocking his head, Zevran thought aloud. “Even in the Tower, you were forced? Where were the Templars? And the other mages? Did they not watch out for their own?”

Lahar laughed bitterly. “Who do you think did it? One Templar in particular did his best to watch what others did, but he was nothing more than a boy. There was not much he could do to stop some of the older ones’ proclivities.” She tapped her chin in thought. “No one ever seemed to notice what happened to me. I didn't bring it to anyone's attention. Why bother? I was a prisoner in the Tower, as surely as all the other mages. We're nothing more than toys for the Chantry and, by extension, the Templars.”

His eyes widened in realization. “That is why you do not pay attention to Alistair's advances.”

“Advances? Alistair?” she scoffed. “He only thinks he wants me because I'm the only other Warden around and because I take responsibility off his shoulders so he doesn't have to think, to worry. Under any other circumstances, he would pay me no mind. Frankly, I wish he wouldn't, anyway. He's a good man, but I've seen enough of what 'good men' can do, Templar, almost-Templar, or otherwise.” Her expression was ugly, a glimpse at what lay under the cool demeanor, and Zevran knew he was one of the only people to ever have caught sight of it, if not the _only_ person.

Her cold hostility was gone as quickly as it had emerged. “I'd rather take my chances with a known danger than wait for someone who is supposed to be honorable, goodhearted and perfect to stab me in the back. The marks they leave are far worse than what those who are considered 'evil' would. At least I know where I truly stand with someone who is dangerous. I will always know that my position is at risk and that they will abandon, kill, torture or toss me out if they see a personal benefit. There is never a question of if they will do it, only when they will do it. That, I can handle.”

“You would make a very good Crow,” he said, grasping her chin. “But you are not the sort who should think like this, _pequeña_. Do you truly believe that I will betray you?”

Her answer came too fast for it to be true. “I don't know.”

 _Yes, I would,_ he thought baldly, but lying was better. “Liar.” He shook her head from side to side with his grip. “My freedom is wrapped up in you, your survival and success. It behooves me not to do such a thing.”

“Who's the liar now?” she asked plainly, her words like a slap though absent of malice or anger. “The only thing I have to watch with you, Zevran, is to make sure that you keep seeing that it is better for you here than elsewhere. I can't force you to stay, to do anything, nor would I try to. You're not a slave, not to me, so I take it as a personal favor when you do as I ask.” One of his legs was going numb from her weight in his lap, but was relieved by her shifting. “It would be nice if I could have some warning before you betray me, but it's unlikely I'll get it, so I'll just stay on my toes, if that's agreeable?”

“You are too cynical for someone so young,” he said, grazing her mouth with his thumb. “I would rather you trust me, _bonita_ , than not. It would be a nice thing for a change.”

Her brows arched high on her forehead. “Of course I trust you, Zev. Probably more than I should, but trusting someone doesn't mean that I have to believe that they won't work to their own benefit over mine, if it suits them.”

“And you, Lahar? Would you betray me if it was to your benefit?” he asked, curious more than anything.

“I like to think I wouldn't,” the mage replied, laying her head on his shoulder. “I hope it never comes to that. I don't like the thought that I could do something like that just for myself. If it was for more than just me, then yes, I would. Even if I wouldn't like it, know that at least I would try to avoid it.”

It was strangely comforting to know that Lahar wouldn't throw him away callously and that she did trust him, even though she was aware that he was capable of doing her great harm. A nagging certainty was whispering that it was unlikely he could betray her at all; it was an irritating thing that was shoved aside in favor of re-stoking the fires of desire in the mage. Sex was easy, sex was understandable and uncomplicated.

Well, it was usually uncomplicated.

“Then let me show you how much I appreciate your hopes and trust, _preciosa_ ,” he murmured, proceeding to draw her into a long kiss. He broke away briefly to whisper, once she was writhing – kissing, at least, she seemed to heartily enjoy. “Since you do not know where to touch, may I use your hand to show you?”

Her only reply was to kiss him harder and rise up on her knees once more. Unfortunately, just as before, Lahar tensed and pulled away once contact was made with her sex. _At this rate I shall have to tie her up and simply_ show _her that it can be good,_ he thought, disgusted, even though the assassin knew without a doubt that doing so would only add to the barriers, rather than take any away. By now, Zevran was so sexually charged with his own needs he could howl. Frayed nerves sought to win out over preternatural patience. Patience won, but only by a narrow margin.

A _very_ narrow margin. 

Voice husky, he pleaded with her. “Lahar, _princesa_ , please.”

Shuddering under the intensity in his gaze, Lahar's eyes were wide with something between her own arousal and fear. “Tell me what I should do.”

That was the last thing he was expecting. “Excuse me?”

“Tell me how to touch myself.” Here was a suggestion that brought infinite possibilities to mind. It was also a suggestion that kept him from throwing her down and plundering every inch of her body until she screamed. Drawing a deep breath, she continued. “I don't know how, and you do, but I...maybe if you tell me how to do it, then it won't be you touching me at all.” The last bit came out in a mumbled rush: “And you can show me how to touch you too, by doing it to yourself...”

He had to work to bring saliva into his suddenly dry mouth. “ _Fortuna sonríe_ , that is...an excellent idea, _encatadora._ ”

She fidgeted and coughed into her fist, nervously. “So, um...what do you want me to do?”

He yanked his shirt over his head and threw it somewhere near the vicinity of a place had no care for at all. “How comfortable are you with your own nudity?” He tugged at the hem of her robe. “You are already partially bared to me. I would see more if I may.”

Lahar squirmed. “Can we work towards that instead? I don't think, I think I may not be able to do that. Yet.”

_Ah Zevran, do not be greedy. You can work with this, yes?_

She must have noticed his disappointment, though he had tried to mask it. “Could we still touch each other some?”

The offer, phrased as a question, was a boon, and he nodded his acquiescence. “Above the waist then, yes?” Unlacing the top of his trews, the instant relief from constriction elicited a sigh. “Much better.”

The mage started to scoot back. “I should change positions, shouldn't I? Your legs are probably tired from holding me up so long.”

“No, no, do not move. Stay where you are, _bonita_ , your weight is little enough burden for the reward.” Lahar nodded, a slightly hesitant look to her face as Zevran reached out; he wrapped one arm behind her lower back to keep her steady, as he had before, pulling her a bit to his chest, before opening his mouth to gently tease under her ear. "You are free to touch me as you like, _encantadora_ , for I am yours."

Her face betrayed a flash of confusion. “I thought you were going to tell me how to touch myself, first?”

“Oh, I am, certainly,” he assured her, nipping at the side of her neck. “But I wish you to be comfortable with me first, as I have already made contact with you more than you have made with me, yes? Please, _hermosa encantadora mia_ , release me from my prison,” he coaxed.

A look of intense concentration on her face, Lahar slid her palm down his chest, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. Zevran bent his head so he could capture a nipple, laving it as there was another hesitation, encouraging, silently begging Lahar to touch him. She took a deep, fortifying breath, the sound loud beside his ear; he had the taste of her soft skin in his mouth, and then her hand was sinking under the waistband of his breeches. Her fingers tangled in the curls over his member before reaching their goal. Unable to stop the groan that originated somewhere deep in his stomach, Zevran left Lahar's breast to ravish her mouth, tongue pushing between her lips, hips lifting as much as they could from the ground as she grasped his thickness.

 _Sweet Fortuna!_ Hissing in relief as she freed him, the air cooled the hard heat in her slender hand. “Can you feel how hard I am, _princesa_?”

Zevran could feel how hot Lahar's cheek was where it pressed against his. Her voice was breathy. “Yes.”

“It is because I want you, _mi princesa, mi cielo, mi diosa_.” Rough, hoarse, the endearments fell from his lips in encouragement. “Do not be frightened of it, of me. This...” he covered her hand where she touched him, “Is what you do to me, evidence of your power over me.”

Zevran was sure Lahar would normally protest and was glad she did not. Zevran didn't think what little patience he had would last through another argument of power and control. Not right now, but later – perhaps. This was a gift he could give her, a fee he had to provide for her protection when it would be needed later. What did it matter if he enjoyed this? He could teach her the pleasures of the flesh at his leisure. If the side effect was to heal some of her wounds, it was only fair – as she so often patched him up – even if what he could give was a different sort of physical from what she did.

“I do this?” Squeezing, she leaned away to look down between them – not that she could see much in all likelihood – their hands covered the bulk of his erection, and he was not entirely free of his trews either.

He hummed, low in his throat. _“Si, mi pequeña, esto es lo que me haces.”_

She gave him an experimental squeeze, and he moaned again. “It feels nice?”

“Nice is not...” Chewing on his lip, Zevran massaged the head of his cock. “...Not at all a word I would use, _pequeña_ , for how it feels. _Mierda,_ words, I cannot think of, right now.” The familiar weight filled his grip, the skin slipping up and down softer than any other part of his body. “Lick your finger, _hermosa encatadora mia_.” He gave her the direction she needed, unable to refrain any longer. “And then stroke it along your slit, look for the...” He paused, watching avidly while she did as he said, the cool touch of her hand unbearable for its loss. “...peak of flesh. It will feel like...” Dipping his head, he flicked a quick swipe over her nipple. “Similar to this bud here.”

Her eyes became huge, and Zevran knew she had found it. “This?” She rose up and tilted back, while he continued to support her back, showing him. “Is this it?” Lahar's index and ring fingers were holding herself open, the slicked middle finger darting over the nubbin. “It tickles!”

Only a monumental exercise in willpower stopped Zevran from hauling Lahar up so he could show her just how much that area could “tickle.” _Sweet Andraste,_ surprised by the action, almost _shocked_ by it, Zevran fixated on the view of tender flesh that was revealed. _You are just full of surprises aren't you,_ pequeña? _Fortuna smiles on me this day...._

Reminding himself to _Breathe, dammit_ , and that he had to guide her along in this self-discovery, he fumbled for more instructions. “Play with it, run your fingers over it, pinch it – do what feels right. Do what makes you...” Searching for a word other than “tickle” or “good,” Zevran came up short. He wasn't exactly running at full capacity at the moment, Lahar was just too distracting. “Do what makes it tingle, like a little jolt of electricity.”

The position was awkward to say the least, but Zevran continued to hold Lahar up, while pumping and stroking his manhood in time to each exploratory touch on the pearl that was Lahar's center of pleasure. Sighs, interspersed with surprised giggles, came from the mage, her expression verging on joyous. It was more than clear she had never done this, had never expected it to feel as it did. A feeling of enthralled pride welled up in Zevran. _I gave her this._

 _“Mía, toda mia.”_ Reverently, he gasped the words out, forgetting to speak in Ferelden, enraptured by Lahar's display.

Unable to stop himself when Lahar tossed her head back with a whimper, he released his hold on his prick, grabbing her hip so he could shift. Leaning in, Zevran ran his tongue over her fingers, tasting the salty musk of a woman's natural perfume. She was so slippery that he could almost fool himself that it was an accident when the thick muscle of his tongue moved down to her entrance, dipped in a moment, then made its way back to her busy fingers. Hips churning, Lahar moaned the whole time, lost to it, but becoming steadily more aware and more tense, if the nails that bit into his shoulder were anything to go by. Reluctantly, Zevran stopped, but not before giving one last long swipe from bottom to top, and returned to pleasuring himself.

“You...you _licked_ me!” She sank back down in his lap, lips swollen, cheeks bright, eyes glazed.

“Did you like it, _preciosa_? I know I did.” He sucked on his own lips in the hope of gathering any last trace of her essence and nuzzled her face. “I could do it again if you wish me to.”

She squirmed, clearly embarrassed, but interested. “Not yet.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth. _“Como desees, bonita._ Touch yourself, _princesa_. I want to see your pleasure. Show it to me, share it with me.”

Lying back slowly, taking Lahar with him, Zevran sped up his motions; the build-up had taken so long already. Between them, their hands worked, and Zevran could feel her nectar on his knuckles from time to time, unable to tear his gaze from Lahar's face. Her eyes would close, only to open and watch him watching her. Her moans picked up volume, and Zevran echoed them when he fisted his hand in her hair, leaning up to fill her mouth with his tongue. It was tempting, so very tempting to change his hold on his cock, to direct it to her entrance, to have her impale herself on it as she rocked against her hand. Of course, he did not, but the thought did cross his mind.

There was a whimper, and Lahar mumbled brokenly into his mouth. “It’s...I can't, I can't keep going!”

Knowing she was close, Zevran twisted his hand so he could grab her fingers and rub them quickly over her nubbin. She was too far gone to care that he was touching her, and then it didn't matter. Lahar froze, a forlorn mewl issuing as Zevran felt a rush of moisture over their tangled fingers. It was more than he could bear, and he bucked up against her, not entering, only grinding against her femininity until he, too, fell off the cliff with a shout.

Arching his back, arms stretching out, Zevran gave a contented groan. “Ah, sweet relief.” He rolled his wrists so they popped. “Mmm, I thank you for sharing with me.”

Hovering, Lahar's elbows were planted on the ground. “It was...strange.” Before he could question her, Lahar ground down against him, letting out a giggle. “We're all slippery!”

“Sweet Maker!” He sucked in a breath as she did it again. “Never mind the Maker, Sweet Fortuna!” Clasping his hands in front of his face, he stared into the treetop canopy. “I take back all my curses about your virtue, my fair Fortuna! For this, I shall have to shower you with gold!”

Lahar laughed, rocking back as she sat up, but the laughter ceased rather abruptly to be replaced by doubt. “Did...that feel good for you, too?”

“Oh yes, yes it did, _hermosa pequeña mia_ , very good.” He knew he must still step carefully with her. She wasn't a virgin, but something worse, and required much care. “I was only thanking my good fortune for being here with you, _preciosa_. I am a lucky man, that you would gift me with your first pleasure, and even more so for following it up with such a carefree and happy expression.” He sat up, gathering Lahar close before rolling her gently onto her back. “That this was a joyous experience for you, I could ask for no sweeter thing."

She swallowed, a touch apprehensively. “And now what comes next? Are...we supposed to...?”

“Anything you like _pequeña_ , anything at all.” He held his weight off of her. “If I could but steal a kiss, you shall have no arguments from me _bonita_.”

When Lahar didn't respond immediately, Zevran dipped enough so he could press his mouth to her forehead and withdrew. Rolling onto his side, he tucked himself back into his trews, before finally draping an arm over her midsection. Propped on a forearm, he used his free hand to play with a strand of the younger elf's chestnut locks. _You are a fool Arainai,_ he chided himself harshly, _that was the same thing you said to her that night._ Idiota, _do not forget how fragile she is. So fragile,_ preciosa _, I should not shock you. It ruins what you have given me this day._

Words were like sex, something Zevran was skilled with, but with Lahar his words either fell flat or were sullied by their combined past experiences. In Zevran's case, his former conquests were usually well-versed, and words were just pretty things to fill silence with, while in Lahar's... _'It hurts' she says, says this as though that was normal._ Cursing himself a thousand times a fool, he made no more movements other than to stay close. To lean down and kiss her temple or play with her hair was all he did, all that he would allow himself.

“Zevran?” She was quiet, so very quiet.

“Mmm?” He paused midway through brushing his lips over her face once more.

“I don't know what I want to do.” Her head rolled back so she could catch his gaze. “Is there something you'd like to do?”

He attempted a light tone. “There are always things I would like to do. Perhaps we could go over some more Antivan phrases? I believe I could teach you some of the more colorful ones, so you have something to yell at darkspawn.”

“If you want...” She was more confused than anything else. “But I'm usually too busy chanting to waste breath cursing them.” She reached up to run the tip of a finger along his tattoo – a finger that still bore her scent. “You don't have to steal kisses. I'll give them to you if you want them, or you can take them whenever you want.” At this, she turned scarlet. “Or not. Whatever you like.” Rapidly, she changed the topic before he could say anything. “So what _does_ 'braska' mean? I haven't figured that out.”

“It is difficult to translate, an idea along the lines of 'damn',” he answered with a frown. Refusing to be put off, he said, “My dear Lahar, I am an assassin, a rogue. I steal things whether they be items or life. This is simply who I am.”

Lahar shifted to her side so she could face him squarely. “But you don't need to steal what's freely given.”

His brow furrowed. “My...'stealing' of kisses from you...bothers you?”

“Well, think about it.” She gestured vaguely. “‘Stealing’ means taking what does not belong to you, means taking from someone else without giving something back. So, you can't actually _steal_ something like that. Not unless you were trying to hurt me, which, in that context, wouldn't make any sense, now would it?”

“You are very... _odd_ , my dear Warden,” he averred, but he saw the logic. “It was a turn of phrase, nothing more. Please do not worry yourself over it if I say something similar at some other time, as it would be unintentional. This is what has been...bothering you?”

Looking sheepish, she ducked her head. “Yes. Stupid, I know, of all the things – darkspawn, the Dalish, everything – I get squeamish about how you word something.”

Deciding to test Lahar's boundaries, Zevran began kissing her all over her face. Small fists tapped him a few times on the chest as she giggled, and he finished everything off by dragging his tongue over the side of her nose. That made her squeal and scrub at her face, all traces of anxiety gone from her once more. It was then that he took the opportunity to kiss her soundly, an activity that he found himself more than willing to spend great amounts of time on.

After all, they had three days of seclusion, why not give Lahar everything she had never had? 

“Mm... that is probably the longest I have ever spent kissing a single person.” He huffed a laugh into the alabaster column of throat.

Twisting underneath him, Lahar made a face. “You've kissed more than one person at the same time? Is that even possible?”

“Ah, that would be a sensitive topic, _princesa_. I do not think you would wish to touch on it.” Zevran would smack the back of his own head if it wouldn't confuse Lahar more. _Thrice damned drugs, loosening my tongue! I cannot just say everything that comes to mind!_ Braska! “But this...” he said, pressing his mouth to hers briefly, “...Is an activity you enjoy very much, is it not?”

“I do, but don't you enjoy it too?” His braids had come loose from the tie that held them back, and Lahar was toying with them, tugging at the knotted leather that kept them from fraying.

Mouth not checking with his brain, even as he cursed himself, he continued. “Kissing is all well and good, but there are more things to do with one’s mouth than engage someone else's. Whores do not pass them out for free, and that is the mindset I grew up with. Kissing is between those who have feelings and not for those servitors who sell the illusion of love to give away to the buyer.” Now it was Zevran's turn to feel strange and uncertain. “It is something I avoided doing more than was necessary to get a job done.”

“Well, we're friends aren't we? And since I'm not buying them or selling them, if you want kisses you can have them.” Her expression was soft. “But don't just...do it because I like it. Do it if _you_ like it.”

Uncomfortable, Zevran did something he couldn't remember doing in years, outside of an act. He _squirmed._ It was most certainly not the high point of his life. Zevran was seductive, passionate, able to entice with soft caresses or forceful grasping. Yet, at that moment, the elf was feeling... _soft._ For some freakish reason, the thought that Lahar wanted him to do something for his own simple enjoyment, for simple affection, was frighteningly wonderful.

The only thing he could be glad of was that Lahar didn't ask about the fact that he had been taught that kisses were far more intimate than anything else, that they bore...implications, with few acts being more intimate than that. _Except sleeping._ Brought up short, Zevran buried his face in her chest to hide. _I have slept with her every night for a week, I have woken up beside her every day._ Unsettled in the extreme, he struggled internally. _Sleep...I have not slept with another since leaving the apprentice barracks. Even then, it was not as if we slept so close that we could touch._ Sleeping next to someone meant lowering one's guard, revealing yourself at your most physically vulnerable. _Arainai, you absolute, total fool – you have let her too close!_

Except there was no changing it. Sleeping beside Lahar was some of the first actual rest he had gained since leaving Antiva. In bed with her, Zevran could close his eyes and not worry for being attacked, and at the moment it was not as if there was anything he could do about it, anyway. Their role as a mated pair required a shared sleeping arrangement.

Something came back to him, something that he had overheard when playing the servant for the Masters once. “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” Master Adolfo had told Taliesen. The Crow had questioned the Master about the reasons for his meeting and close “friendship” with Mistress Pilar. Taliesen had been arguing that since the female Master was a rival and had been seeking to poach on Adolfo's territory, that it would be best to keep her at a distance. Adolfo had smacked Taliesen, before explaining in no uncertain terms that the best way to spy on, and thereby control, an enemy was to keep them close. _As close as a lover._ Zevran's thoughts twisted, only able to ask himself the question inside the darkest corners of his mind – Who was watching whom when it came to Lahar and himself?

Glancing up at Lahar, he had his answer. Her eyes were closed, a little curl to her lips, digits dancing in his hair. _I watch her, but is she my enemy?_ Zevran couldn't see her turning on him without cause. _Best not to give her one,_ he reasoned, not paying conscious attention to the instinctive urge that commanded him to stay as close as he could. It was the same one that said not to let her out of sight, that she was an unknown. Once, Zevran thought that he was better off with the demons he knew rather than the spirits he didn't; now, he was unsure which was which. 

With a forceful mental shake, he threw off such troubling musings. 

“Earlier,” he said, propping his chin up on her breastbone, “you said 'not yet' to a suggestion I made. It is something I would like to do, _bonita_ , but I am unsure of the reception a second offer would receive.”

Lahar blinked slowly, obviously having been in the midst of drifting off. “What did you have in mind?”

He circled the nearest of the mage's nipples with a lazy fingertip, before dragging the digit lower. “I would like to see you bare and possibly to touch you myself, to show you more than what you have discovered by your own hand.”

“Um...” She thought it over, before giving a tentative nod. “Could you...keep your pants on, at first?”

 _“Ciertamente, hermosa pequeña mia,_ anything to make you more comfortable,” he assured her, scooting down her body.

Keeping his touch light, Zevran finished removing the last of his Warden's robe, leaving the tall thigh-socks on. Rocking back on his heels, he looked at his handiwork, admiring Lahar's body. There was something of honey-coated innocent sin in the elf mage's unconscious manner, a complete lack of awareness of how lovely she looked right then. The contrast of soft green grass, luminescent flesh, woody dark hair at head and crotch, and the rare flash of pink from lips, nipples and when she shifted just so – her sex.

Shy hands moved to cover herself. “Zev?”

Taking the fine boned wrists in hand, he tugged them back, gently. “No, please, do not do that.” Running the backs of his knuckles over the swell of breast to stomach to thigh, “You have always had little care before if I saw you. Was it not you who said that it is only skin, something that everyone has?”

“That was before.” She licked her lips, legs shifting. “I feel like...you look like you're going to eat me.”

He didn’t bother to keep the predatory smile from his face. “That is _exactly_ what I intend to do, _preciosa_ , and it is a good thing. Do not shy from it.”

The confused frown was replaced by a gasp when he leaned forward, dragging his tongue from her bellybutton down to the crisp hair on her mons. He could taste himself on the chillier-than-most-people's skin, the bitter tang of his seed having never been wiped away. It was all-together not unpleasant, and nipping at Lahar's flesh, the assassin refrained from parting her folds just yet. Slowly, he scrubbed the last, pungent vestiges of his climax from her outer lips as he massaged the Warden's inner thighs, every few passes darting the tip of his tongue into her crevice to flick the bud there, inciting anxious movement from the mage.

Giving a satisfied hum when she granted him greater access by parting her thighs involuntarily, Zevran set about exploring the flower before him, tracing the outline of each bump and petal, savoring the richness of arousal. Knowing he had won when her back began arching, he tugged a thigh over his shoulder. Suckling at the firm button of her clit, he focused there until her hands dug into his locks. Mindless whimpering interspersed with begging moans signalled that Lahar was lost enough that he could risk invading her sheath. With great care, while teasing with lips, teeth and tongue at the ridge of her pleasure center, he eased two fingers into her. This earned him a grunt and a roll of her hips. _Good,_ he thought, relieved, as it had been the point of penetration that had derailed all his earlier attempts at touching the Warden. _You can think of nothing but the enjoyment, yes? Splendid._

Shortly thereafter she was keening, arching her back so much that he almost feared that she would hurt herself. All at once, Lahar went limp, sighing, the tips of her nails flexing into his scalp, and deeming that he had teased his Warden enough, Zevran kissed his way up her stomach, hand remaining wedged between her thighs. As though everything were right in her world, Lahar sighed, fingers twining through his hair while she petted him, the look in the mage's eyes faraway seeing some peaceful and distant landscape.

He nuzzled her chin, knowing the answer to the question before asking it, hoping to lead Lahar to the obvious conclusion. “And how was that, _princesa_?”

A small smile played around her lips, full of surprised wonder. “It didn't hurt.”

“Marvelous.” His voice was husky and raw – just as his body felt, the thick pool of blood between his own thighs having returned. “And glad I am for that,” he said, resuming the motion of the digits buried within Lahar's womanhood.

“Oh!” She exclaimed in muffled surprise. “What are you doing?” Wriggling, Lahar tried to catch sight of the action, and Zevran obliged by lifting away enough so she could watch him pull his fingers from her slowly before pushing them back in, as she gave an answering whimper to the invasion.

Offering, praying she would accept for his sake, at the very least, he coaxed her some more. “I can make it better than even that, for both of us, _bonita,_ if you let me.”

Beneath him, Lahar took a few moments to think about it before nodding with barely a hint of misgiving as he stilled the stroking to give her the chance to decide. “It will feel good for both of us? For you, too – not just me?”

“Extremely.” He was taken aback by Lahar's concern for his own pleasure. “I did not wish to startle you by simply proceeding to the next stage without asking.”

In reply, Lahar reached up to cup his jaw. “Thank you for that.” Her hands slid down to his chest. “Thank you for making everything so nice for me, for being patient. I'm grateful that it's you, Zevran, here with me, instead of someone else. I don't...I don't think I could do this, otherwise.”

It was stupid for him to feel so...thrilled by her sentiment, but he was, whether because of the drugs or because of the knowledge that Lahar was generally an honest sort and that she truly felt that way, as though being shown patience and skill was a rarity. Patience was something that had been taught to Zevran from a very young age, so it was something he took for granted, forgetting that men tended to be urgent in most matters. Abusers, whenever they took their time, it was only to make it worse for the victim rather than better – leaving that point moot.

Lahar brought him back, with a halting caress near his waistband. Not wanting to show his Warden too much at once, he drew away so he could shuck his pants altogether. She may have seen his manhood before, but not when it was fully erect, out in the open, and thus threatening. He could be at least that sensitive. Slipping back up her body, Zevran drew Lahar into another of those long kisses she so enjoyed, waiting until she drug her nails unconsciously over the flesh of his back before nudging her entrance with his tip.

Now it would be tricky, for he would have to fight both his body's demands and contend with Lahar's vicious past. She took the decision from him, though, pushing her hips upwards, a look of focused determination on her features. Gasping in unison – Braska! _Is she trying to break me?_ – the two elves shuddered and remained still.

He was panting, arms shaking where they were braced beside her head. “I had wanted to take more time with you, Lahar. You need not have rushed so.”

Under him, the mage whimpered. “I wanted it to be by my hand. I'm sorry.”

“Hush, now.” Gathering his strength, Zevran reigned in his traitorous body. “You are unhurt?” At her nod, he shifted his weight to one arm, freeing his hand for more useful purposes. “Relax and let me do this for you.”

So saying, Zevran applied skillful digits to her bundle of nerves, refusing to start moving within Lahar until she had adjusted to his intrusion completely. Smooth palms ran over his shoulders and biceps, the artless caressing as enticing as the heat that he was buried in, weakening his resolve. Already, Lahar was sighing, clasping, wet, flexing around him, parted thighs rubbing against his, and Zevran moaned without remorse. _Yes, you should know what you do to me,_ hermosa pequeña mia _. Like you, I am not unaffected,_ he thought, but he couldn't speak in words she would understand.

Biting at his lip, he felt the sweat born of desire and strain forming along his back, the restraint he was exercising costing him dearly in his current state. Knowing he would be unable to hold out much longer before moving, he sped up the motion of his fingers over her pearl causing her to churn and that continual stroking over his chest and arms to become more desperate. Hoping to bring Lahar to another peak before continuing, Zevran struggled to block out the sensation of tightening and relaxing muscles around his member.

“Please!” Legs locking around the backs of his thighs, Lahar cried out. Her hands fisting in his hair, she leaned up, eyes scrunching.

Any resistance Zevran had crumbled, and he began pumping. Together their voices rose, ringing in his ears. Quickly adjusting his angle, knowing that there was no possible way he could last very long, he pushed one of Lahar's long legs close to her chest, causing a thrashing shriek and bucking hips. She was shaking and flushed, chest heaving, a beautiful wild thing.

A litany of praise fell from his lips, half in Antivan, half in Ferelden. _“Apretada, bonita,_ yes, ah, Maker! _Muy apretada, preciosa!”_ He fell forward to rest on his elbows. “This, _this_ is how it should be!”

He seized upon Lahar's mouth, catching each of those delicious sounds she made, and soon he would have to pull free because he was _close_. She tore her mouth from his, and Zevran's head lolled to the side as she kissed from the side of his jaw down his neck, like she was trying to devour him whole. Unschooled, untutored, it didn't matter – he only cared for the sensation of uninhibited, raw desire that he had stoked into a raging fire in Lahar. Some of it was due to his own personal skill, some to Lahar's own natural instincts, and some from the drugs administered for the Bonding ceremony. What did it matter? This was their first time together, and it would set the tone for the rest of their encounters.

Teeth sunk into his lip, blood filling his mouth, Zevran clamped down on the need to release _right now_ that was screaming from the place they were joined. Lahar had already been worked to near frenzy before, and it was no surprise when she froze, locked in a soundless cry, face twisted in ecstasy. That was all Zevran could handle, and with stuttering thrusts he followed right after, unable to force himself to pull out as he had planned, but only to press farther in, to crush the Warden close as he spilled his seed.

With a deep groan, Zevran heaved himself up so he no longer squashed the Warden. “Mmm.” Carefully sweeping away some of the hair that was plastered to her cheeks, he looked down at her. “And that, my little minx, is what it is supposed to be like.”

Dazed and blinking, her pupils sluggishly dilated and contracted. “I feel so...full...it's... _wonderful._ ” A yawn broke free, and she stretched like a cat. “Oh my. Am I supposed to be so sleepy?”

“Then rest, _pequeña_ , it is not abnormal to be tired from such activities.” Cupping a downy soft cheek with calloused palm, thumb tracing a lip that was bruised from ardent kissing, Zevran gave her a tight smile.

Now was the time he generally made himself scarce, leaving behind either a very dead lover or a very satisfied one. In many cases, both. The body has muscle memory, and after the number of years spent as an assassin, the urge to finish in ways that were not so... _pleasant_ as this was nigh overwhelming. Especially with the taste of thick, cloying blood on his tongue, the tremors that wracked his muscles only concealed with practice.

“You're bleeding.” Her slim fingertip touched the bottom of his lip; she was unaware of just how dangerous he could be, that his self-control was hanging by such a slim thread. “May I?”

At his nod, a bolt of cold shot through Zevran’s mouth, like a slap back to reality. It did more than mend the tear in flesh, also washing the internal shakes away. _Is it possible that you read my expression?_ He measured the mage's own look, the peculiar undefined weight in frozen blue-gray irises heavy with their own conclusions. _Or mayhap you know of the danger you are in,_ pequeña, _and accept it as normal?_

“Sleep now, _bonita_.” He wrapped an arm around her, drawing Lahar close.

The Warden snuggled down, hands making fists that were tucked under her chin after rolling so that her back was pressed to his side, head pillowed on his bicep. It took only a few moments before her breathing evened into the soft hum of sleep. Gazing down at her, Zevran sighed. She resembled nothing so much as a kitten, worn out from their activities. Disengaging gently and rising smoothly from the tangled mess that had originally been spread out bedrolls, the Antivan went to the trees. He needed to clean up, relieve himself and find Morrigan.

 

 

XXXX

Well everything is in Spanish this time, so no need to say which is which.  
 __

_bonita - beautiful_

_Pequeña – little one_

_preciosa – good looking_

_princesa - princess_

_mi cielo - my sky (similar in terms of in English saying to someone ‘my sweet’)_

_mi diosa - my goddess_

_Fortuna sonríe – fortune smiles_

_encatadora - enchanting/enchantress_

_hermosa pequeña mia – my beautiful little one_

_Si, mi pequeña, esto es lo que me haces. – yes, my little one, this is what you do to me_

_Mierda - shit_

_Mío, toda mia – mine, all mine_

_Como desees – as you wish_

_Ciertamente - Certainly_

_Apretada - tight_

_Muy apretada – very tight_


	7. Chapter 7

Murder 6  
XXX

Mossy undergrowth lay in a thick carpet in the places where not enough sunlight filtered down through the canopy for grass to grow, and cushioned the Antivan's silent footsteps. He was following the thin babbling brook, judging that the whole thing had been encouraged to form more from the hands of elves than the hand of nature. Naked as the day he was born, he knew that by some trick of the light he could be mistaken for nothing more than a shaft of sunlight striking through the leafy overhead. Not even the Dalish scouts would notice him.

Falling to a squat, bracing a palm against the coarse bark of a tree, for a second Zevran tilted his head, listening. It was as though there were a conscious pulse emanating from the tree he touched, but then it was gone, as fast as he had taken note of it. Lessons that Arainai had imparted over the course of two years in an attempt to make Zevran a Dalish ranger came back in a rush.

As if the willowy red-head were bending down near him, Zevran could pretend he heard her voice. _The trees are speaking amongst themselves...listen_ da'assan _. Do you hear it?_

He whispered to the memory. “Aie, I do. Trespassers.”

 _Something comes, it hunts. Watch for it...it seeks to rid itself of the diseased flesh that has invaded._ The hallucinatory image tipped its head back, sniffing the air like a dog.

 _No – like a wolf._ Copying the movement, Zevran took the time to pick out the different scents.

Signs of prey hung heavy: rabbits, squirrels, and other wild things. Overlaying it was the hidden tang of rancid blood; it was only a trace, barely there. In his heightened state of awareness – hallucinations, pleasures and all – Zevran keyed into that hidden space. Arainai had done a better job of making him a ranger than she had known, far better than the Crows ever learned as well. Since setting foot in the Brecilian Forest, skills that had been left mostly to rot forced themselves to the forefront. Whether it was to hunt food or call allies in battle, Zevran had been doing it, as well as finding the best paths for the party, using unobtrusive methods of guiding them along. The trees whispered their silent language in the back of his head, unacknowledged by him consciously, but still there nevertheless, waiting to reclaim him.

Fighting the urge to sing to the forest, to ask the trees where the intruders were, Zevran straightened. He had to find Morrigan; there was no way he could tolerate spending three nights and almost five whole days in this state. Slinking forward, tongue firmly held between teeth to control the need to sing, to call out, he folded the light and shadow around himself with skilled ease and continued to search. Marking the places where he saw signs of watchers in his mind for later, Zevran held his breath when a creaking limb suddenly revealed a giant raven overhead.

He shuddered. _Dirthamen, keep your pets from my sight!_

Edging away from the bad omen, Zevran stumbled when the larger-than-average beast swooped from its perch. Sulphur, a heavy stink that he should have picked up on sooner, swirled around the black feathers, and just as cruel talons touched ground, feet sprouted. Upwards the transformation travelled and in the space of several heartbeats, Morrigan stood, casually leaning against the tree she had so recently inhabited, arms crossed.

The witch took him in with a cursory glance. “Ho there, elf. I see you are embracing your nature.” A perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched high on the plane of her forehead. “Why are you not with Lahar?”

Collecting himself, Zevran frowned. “I was looking for you.”

This took her by surprise. “For me? And what business would you have with me, elf? Were your body's needs not well fulfilled by the Warden?”

He gave her a noncommittal shrug and smile. “My needs were more than met by our fair Warden, and as lovely as you are, dear Morrigan, I have none left that you should worry over in that manner.”

She rolled her eyes, and huffed. “Good, because as intriguing as your prowess is, you're not tall enough for my tastes and too full of yourself. My mother would like you though – you're just the sort no one would miss.”

He chuckled. “She sounds intriguing. If she is as beautiful as you and I ever find myself in need, perhaps I shall stop by for a visit?”

“Only if you want her to rip your face off, suck your soul out, and then use your bones for soup...after she's ridden you for all you’re worth, and then some.” A flash of disgust was quickly hidden behind her own particular brand of humor.

“Sounds like good fun,” he quipped, falling into easy sparring with words and wit. “It has been some time since a woman was that feisty with me. I should relish the chance!”

This was something Zevran knew inside out and was comfortable with. Morrigan was acerbic, quick and hard. She knew the score and was more like him than she probably cared to admit.

Flames flickered at Morrigan's fingertips, a nervous habit he had observed. “Do all assassins have such death wishes?”

“Only the really good ones,” he replied, mirroring her stance.

A delicate snort was her only response, as she changed the subject. “Tell me, what business pushed you to leave Lahar so unprotected?”

“Ah, the matter at hand,” he said, shaking loose locks from his face. “Those cups bore a mixture of herbs particularly well known in certain circles for their pleasurable effects. While as much as I enjoy a good state of inebriation as the next man, it is not conducive to keeping my wits properly about me.”

“As if your wits are ever about.” She leaned forward, arms still crossed, eyes narrowing. “And what would you like me to do about it?”

“At the moment? Nothing at all.” Spreading his hands palm up, Zevran shrugged with measured eloquence. “But I cannot afford to be so addled that I am unable to defend Lahar should it come to that. It is unlikely, but there is a possibility that over the next few days some threat may arise. The food, and most certainly the drink, provided has been laced with more ah... I do not know what it is called here, but in Antiva we called it _'Especia feliz'_. So I shall need to have food that is free of it.”

Morrigan straightened, irritated detachment giving way to true anger. “And what of Lahar? You would allow her to stay in such a state?” Tongues of flame flittered from clenched fists, and the smell of burning grass came from under Morrigan's soft boots as she hissed, “It _would_ make her easier to influence, but it would also leave her defenseless to you.”

That almost made Zevran angry. It wasn't that he was above taking advantage of someone with lowered inhibitions, but the Chasind witch was supposed to be the Warden's friend, which was supposed to mean she had an inkling of Lahar's varied issues. Wouldn't a friend want Lahar to be able to learn to enjoy life fully?

He grunted once before turning his back on the witch. “If you know my dear Warden as well as she thinks, then you would understand why I want the obstacles she throws up, removed. As I see that this is not the case, I shall find another way to find untainted sustenance for myself while leaving Lahar the bulk of supplies provided.”

“You...” Her tone was surprised, shocked even, and a burning hot hand shot out to latch onto his shoulder. “You're trying to...undo it aren't you? The damage done by the Circle. Why? What's in it for you, elf?”

The move wasn't unexpected, in fact he had purposefully invited it – let Morrigan believe she was in control, so Zevran didn't turn to the dark mage. Instead he paused for effect, as if he were having to find reasons within himself for the why of it. Zevran's reasons were rather simple and quite selfish – he wanted Lahar malleable and trusting. That way he could keep the upper hand, which should be obvious to any natural cynic.

“Perhaps I feel that some things in this world are worth keeping sacred.” He ignored the scalding sensation. Hopefully she would heal it or at least give him a salve to apply before he returned to Lahar. “To sully something that is to be for pleasure, not pain...I am a hedonist, my dear Morrigan, and for someone to have been denied the true pleasures of the flesh, to have it warped seems to be an item I have such an aversion to that I find it intolerable.” Turning, he plastered a grin on his face. “Besides, since none of the others would be accommodating, why not find my own little joys, hmm? It makes this struggle against the Blight acceptable to me, no?”

There was a hot sting as the blistering flesh of his shoulder healed. “Ah. 'Tis as I thought then, lecherous as usual. Fine, you shall have your supplies.”

Zevran only just picked up on the fact that Morrigan's tone wasn't quite right, but the Chasind mage was going to do as he requested, and that was all the assassin could hope for. With another crackle of fell fire, Morrigan's body flowed into that of a raven once more before flying off.

_I am a Crow, as is she – which of us is Fear and which Deceit I wonder?_

XXX

Cool fingers were stroking up and down his length, an altogether splendid way to wake up from a nap. Cracking a lid to investigate, he saw Lahar leaning over his waist, staring down at his member with wide, curious eyes. Not alerting the Warden to his state of awareness, Zevran watched with no small amount of humour as Lahar gave him an experimental poke. This caused his erection to move, first to the side in the direction she had poked him, and then bounce back with the usual resilience of such pieces of anatomy.

Shoulders shook in a soundless giggle, as if she had found the best toy in all of Thedas, as she repeatedly poked him for a few seconds, bottom lip folded over her teeth. And then she was sliding the skin up and down, which made Zevran's indulgent smile fall from his face to be replaced by focus – for now this was about her and he didn’t plan on interrupting her exploration. His Warden was still unaware of his scrutiny which was how he wished to keep it for the time being. _Let her explore on her own terms,_ he thought, shrugging mentally. This went on for some time, this earnest play, as if she had never seen an erect penis before. Chances were she may not have, at least not under favourable conditions.

As an experiment – and just to see what would happen – Zevran started humming tunelessly and flexing to the rhythm without any warning. A yelp and Lahar scrambled back, like a startled cat. Laughing, Zevran propped himself up on his elbows, inclining his head towards her. If her eyes got any bigger, Zevran thought they might pop out of her head.

“Blood and stone! Zevran!” She flushed all over. “How long have you been awake?”

He grinned toothily. “Long enough, _pequeña_ , and while I did not wish to interrupt your fun, as turnabout is fair play, I just could not restrain myself.”

She pressed her hands to her cheeks – probably in a vain hope to cool the blush of embarrassment. “Oh blood...”

“Come now.” He sat up, crossing his legs, hands braced on knees. “Do not be embarrassed _encantadora,_ I would be pleased for you to continue your play, if you wish. I have nothing to be ashamed of and neither do you, in this.” Lahar still wasn't quite looking at him. “I could pretend to be asleep once more, if that is what it takes.”

Lahar rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, and _that_ wouldn’t be obvious.”

“Then perhaps a lesson in anatomy,” he suggested playfully. “You point to something, and I tell you all the _filthy_ and fun words for it.” He palmed his erection. “Let me see – Antivan or Ferelden? Hmm? Or maybe a mix of both? Yes, I think that shall do! _Minga, polla, pito_...which are rather boring, I suppose. Ah, I know...” He watched the young Warden squirm, hiding her face in her hands. “Here is a favourite I learned in Ferleden. Pork sword!”

That made Lahar throw back her head and laugh. “Oh, Maker! Zev! Quit it! You’re so bad.”

“Terrible, I know.” He crawled over the grass and pulled Lahar to kneel in front of him. “Ah, another one. Ham wallet.”

She frowned, face scrunching up. “A...what?”

He danced his fingers over the thatch of hair between her legs. “Ham wallet. For the pork sword.”

Sputtering, she pushed her face into his shoulder, giggling. “Oh that’s disgusting.”

“Purple-helmeted yogurt slinging warrior,” he continued, pulling more phrases from memory and laughing along with her.

“ _What?!_ That’s nasty! How is it...a...oh Maker, I’m not even going to repeat that,” she stuttered, biting her fist.

Leaning back, Zevran gestured, pressing the hood back. “See the helmet? Like a warrior wears. Yes?”

“It’s not purple,” she averred, sneaking a glance down at him. “Maybe...red-ish, somewhat? Biege-y pink? I don’t know what I would call that...but it’s not purple.”

He snickered. “Not everyone looks the same _bonita_ , but all men sling...yogurt, of a sort.”

His Warden spluttered. “Who in the name of all that’s holy comes up with these...terms?”

“Oh, that is easy enough to answer.” Taking one of her hands and wrapping it around his base, he explained. “Men are a rowdy bunch. The more insane a euphemism is, the more it is used.”

Thrusting into her lax grip, Zevran slid his hands up her arms and into her hair, covering her mouth with his before she could say more. Reflexively, Lahar’s hand tightened around him, giving him the friction he desired. The Warden’s mouth opened up willingly, which made him glad, his tongue sweeping in and tangling with hers. At least in this she relaxed.

Parting from her, he asked in a low purr, “And would you like further instructions in anatomy?”

She blinked up at him with glazed eyes, her lips already swollen. “I think so. What do you suggest?”

Zevran almost laughed at the so-serious tone, but refrained. “Hmm, where to start, where to start? There are so many interesting things I could show you, my sweet.” He reached down to cup her bottom, pulling her tight against him, her hand still wrapped around his manhood. “Shall we go over the basics again?”

Falling back to his haunches, Zevran bade Lahar to straddle his thighs in one swift motion. With only a minor adjustment of angle, the crown of his cock was pressed to her core, then sheathed all the way as the young elf bucked in surprise. Grasping her hips, Zevran guided Lahar, who was staring at him in shock, to rock against him. Quieting any protests with his mouth as he had before, the assassin claimed her lips, groaning. She was so tight around him, this part of her body molten hot in contrast to the iciness of the rest of her skin where it rubbed against his. Rolling his hips upwards, Zevran moved from his enchantress’ mouth so he could latch onto a nipple, nibbling it so it would swell. Nails bit at his flesh, Lahar’s fingers tangled in his hair, a breathy mewl that crescendoed suddenly as the rocking friction of their position grating against her nerve centre worked its magic. Giving a sharp smile of triumph, Zevran made Lahar ride him harder and faster, driving her onwards through her release until he found his.

Allowing his legs to cross beneath him, Zevran flopped back. “Ah the basics, so rudimentary, but such pleasurable play, no?”

Lahar shook her head. “You didn’t warn me.” Slipping away, the mage flailed, reaching for her long-since-discarded robe. “You didn’t ask!”

“Should I have?” His brow creased. “Shall I inform you of everything I intend to do before I do it? Must I ask _permission_ for every little concession?”

She was fumbling with the robe and flinched away when he reached out to assist. “You...you....”

“Ah, now that you have had pleasure you wish to put me in the same group as those others, hmn?” Ignoring her protests, Zevran yanked the garment from Lahar after her rejection of help, irritated well and truly, flinging it far enough that she would have no easy time regaining it. He grabbed the Warden by the arms just above her elbows, his voice almost conversational. “Did I hurt you? No? Did you seek to push me away? No? Were you afraid that I would hurt you? No, and no and no? Yes, I see. I am a despicable man who does not explain everything he does before he does it when there is a woman there willing to be kissed, veritably begging to be shown bliss.” Pulling Lahar up to her knees and tight to his chest, he slowly forced her to rise as he stood. “So you think I forced you. Am I surprised by this? Yes. Apparently you think that my vow is only a little bit of breath. Meaningless.”

“You took what you wanted.” Straightening up, Lahar summoned the poise Zevran had so admired in her dealings with others. “With no thought to ask me if that was what I wanted as well. If you had asked, it would have been given freely. Instead you stole it.”

He bared his teeth at her. “I take what I want, _bonita_ , but I give in kind. What did you think I meant when I asked if you wished to play?”

“Not...” Lahar began, but Zevran froze, senses raising the alarm as the forest _shouted_ of wrongness, and he slapped his hand over her mouth, silencing her.

There was an animalistic snarl, verging on roar, as something huge, hairy and lupine burst through the underbrush. In the not-so-far distance there were screams from elven watchers and more roars. Shoving Lahar behind him, Zevran howled, demanding backup from forest allies against the giant beast that was currently leaping towards them.

Over his shoulder a sizzling bolt of energy shot, striking the beast – _Werewolf!_ his mind supplied – in the center of the chest, throwing it backwards. Others dashed into the clearing surrounding Zevran, who was unarmed, but braced for combat nonetheless. Several wolves came bounding into the clearing, crying mournfully but not attacking, milling back and forth between the werewolves and Zevran, obviously undecided on whose side to take.

“Ah riavati minou cas’theira!” Liquid-sounding syllables twisted out of Lahar’s mouth; Zevran was, for the first time, close enough to hear the chanting clearly. A gust of icy wind blew through the trees, rapidly growing in strength.

The largest werewolf, with brown fur and scarred face, sniffed the air. “Mage!”

Lahar’s chanting behind him faltered at the gutturally grunted word. “Miasa’annen -”

“Mage...hurrr...stop your spell! I would speak with you!” This time it spoke a whole sentence, and Zevran took a step back in shock.

“You can speak?” Reaching back, Zevran clamped a hand over Lahar’s wrist, stilling the motions of her casting, his forest sense urging caution, yet demanding he listen. “You are...sentient?”

“I am Swiftrunner...hurrr...traitorous Dalish.” He stood straight on back-bent hind-legs before rocking forward into a crouch. “And let the thought of my sentience fill you with fear!”

The Warden stepped away from Zevran, hands held at the ready to begin casting anew. “Zathrian said you were simple beasts. I see that this is not so, Swiftrunner, but menacing my mate and killing the scouts will not gain positive attention from me.”

Swiftrunner growled, which was echoed by the other werewolves, and taken up by the normal forest wolves as well, before responding. “They need to suffer the same curse as we have until Zathrian listens to us! We shall gladly watch them and make them pay.”

“And what is it you wish of the Keeper?” Zevran asked, drawing attention away from Lahar. If the lycanthropes were to attack, Lahar would be the first to go down, as she was not as nimble as he, so it was best to keep their focus on him rather than her. The assassin was assessing weak points, senses reaching into the forest, listening for the usual spirits, wondering if they could be called to assist. They were silent, keeping their own counsel from his earth sense. “What have they done to you?”

Swiftrunner growled again. “The Keeper wishes to kill Witherfang. The treacherous Dalish will send you. I will not allow it. Hurrr...you do not belong here, leave now while you still can.”

One of the flanking werewolves surged forward, coming to stop just before Zevran, jaws clacking shut close to his face, breathing foul breath upon him. “This one is Dalish, he stinks of it.”

Reacting on instinct, Zevran lashed out with his fist, striking the beast in the nose, forcing a yowl of pain from the creature. “I am not of _these_ Dalish. I have no quarrel with you, and I advise you do _not_ start one with me.”

The others snarled, making as though to attack, but a burst of cold after a tersely snapped syllable stopped the one that Zevran struck in its tracks. Crystalline tinkling as ice formed up around the werewolf who struggled before freezing solid was eerie in the silence that followed. A pack wolf yipped, nosing at the statue forlornly.

“Daynai!” Swiftrunner hissed, voice twisted but still recognizably anguished at the plight of the frozen werewolf. He swung his gaze back towards Lahar. “Mage, you do not know all. Leave now. We will let you be if you go.”

“I can’t do that, Swiftrunner. I am a Grey Warden and there is a Blight.” Energy coalesced and crackled from finger to finger in lightening blue currents. “And the Dalish must honour their treaties with the Wardens. Keeper Zathrian refuses until we aid his tribe.”

“Blight? Hrrr.” Beady eyes narrowed, crouching lower so that he, she or it – Zevran wasn’t entirely sure, and a quick glance between the beast’s legs didn’t reveal anything to clarify – was on Lahar’s level. “What care do we have of Dalish problems? Of human problems?”

He placed himself once more between Lahar and the threat, gradually backing up, pushing Lahar so that her back was to a tree. If necessary, he could hoist her into the branches, where the beasts wouldn’t be able to reach her until help arrived, sparing no thought for himself. _Where is that damned Witch? Where are you, Morrigan? I could use some backup...._ “A Blight is a problem for everyone, be they beast, plant or two legged.”

“Gurrr...you will not listen! Then we will let the forest deal with you!” Swiftrunner backed away, as the sound of breaking ice heralded the werewolf Daynai’s release from the spell. “You have been warned! Come, brothers and sisters. We retreat!”

With that, the lycanthropes turned and fled.

XXX

Floating on his back in the pool that had been obligingly heated from arctic to tolerable with Lahar’s very basic fire magic, Zevran went over the encounter with the werewolves. A scout had come earlier to inform them that their seclusion would have to end early, but that they had another day to themselves. With the death of the Dalish who had been watching over him and Lahar, the clan was left with too few to keep to their usual patrol routes. Neither he nor the Warden had mentioned that the lycanthropes had spoken to them; those questions were best saved for Keeper Zathrian.

 _Not that he will answer with any truth,_ he thought, grunting, staring at the hole in the canopy of trees, counting the stars in the sky. _I doubt he will be surprised at knowing these ‘beasts’ have retained their minds. As I thought before, this curse is far more than we were told._

From near the small fire that he had built for them, Lahar called, “Are you hungry? There’s some kind of cheese and mystery meat in these packs. It’s got to be better than anything Alistair would make. In fact I think it’s actually his turn to cook tonight. Good thing we’re out here!”

Grunting, the Antivan rolled to a stand in the water. “That is not saying much, _mi cielo_. The last I ate of Dalish food, it was not so bad. Somewhat bland for my tastes, but hearty fare.” He splashed his face before clambering from the pool. “If there is a chance we may stop in a town or trade with a caravan, I must get some spices. This Ferelden food you eat makes my stomach turn.”

“Maybe if we can make it back to the Tower.” Lahar presented a wedge of halla cheese that had been cut into thin slices on waxed paper, and the haunch of some small animal that had been deep fried. “They always get rare things in that no one else does. I miss spices, too. The Tranquil make these little biscuits with cinnamon and cloves, and one of them would make this lamb that was just...ahh.” She shivered in eloquent ecstasy, followed by a shrug. “But what can you do? Ferelden doesn’t have a good spice-growing climate, not like the more northern countries.”

Accepting the simple meal, Zevran made himself comfortable, folding to sit beside Lahar and intentionally remaining nude, set on forcing the mage to acclimate to his nakedness and even prefer it of him. “That does not seem to stop them importing salt, _preciosa_. Fereldens slather everything in salt, leaching away whatever natural flavours there were beforehand.” Picking at the meat, he gave it a sniff, then ate a small piece, allowing his taste-buds to analyze the food for any added ingredients. He spit the bite into the fire, though he found no added bonuses in the food. “Ugh! Even these Ferelden Dalish ruin a decent meal with salt.”

She plucked the meat from his improvised plate. “If you don’t want it, then I’ll eat it. I haven’t gotten a good meal since leaving the Tower. Between walking, casting, nightmares and dealing with you lot, I’m wearing down to nothing. It’s so...draining.”

Brushing away the hair that had fallen to cover his Warden’s face, the assassin examined her more closely. “There is more to magic than than using your mind?” There were slight hollows under Lahar’s cheekbones, hinting that she had recently lost weight. “We _elvhen_ tend to be slight. However even for our race, you are slim. This is due to your powers and not your natural state?”

Grimacing, she broke the thigh in half and daintily stripped meat from bone with thumb and forefinger – a delicate way of eating that Zevran frequently saw in the desert peoples in the badlands of Antiva, but never anywhere else before now. “Mana isn’t some renewable resource that just poofs out of thin air. It takes concentration to pull energy from the Fade and channel it into usable forces, not just mental strength, Zev. Otherwise anyone strong enough could do it, which would mean not so many idiots would be gifted like me.”

Nodding, Zevran began to eat the cheese, finding that it was far more pungent than he was used to halla cheese being, and much softer in texture than the Antivan Dalish he had come across would make it. “I imagine that such an innate talent would require intelligence, but I suppose that this is not always so. Since it requires more than a sharp intellect, I still fail to grasp why it would drain you so badly.”

She punctuated her point with a gesture, waving the unidentified, over salted food around. “Casting takes breath, unless it’s a spell you’ve used every day and practiced so much that you can subvocalize. Now, pair breathing that I can describe in no other way than ‘circular’, mental concentration, and moving around to dodge attacks, along with making sure that, _no matter what_ , you don’t mispronounce anything at all, and I mean _at all_ Zevran. If I make one misstep, I’ll be summoning a demon and not a storm, or I could become an abomination.”

“I did not know it was so tricky.” He curled his fingers in a psuedo-magical gesture he had seen Lahar make many times. “All I see and hear is some gibberish and flickering fingers, and then a light show. Never did I suspect it would require...so much more.”

“Every school has its language, tone and images we must hold in our minds, maintaining the lines and paths forged by those who’ve gone before.” The mage leaned against his shoulder, still consuming her food at an alarming rate, pausing to even eye his cheese, which he offered but she waved off. “Spells I’m familiar with only require a small image, as I’ve burned the pathways into my mind so often, and a short focused word. The more complex the spell and the less experience I have with it, the harder I have to work.” She leaned away from him, drawing in the dirt with a finger, making a spiral within a circle that doubled-back on itself, surrounded by a square. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

He examined it in the light of the fire, squinting. “It looks like a meditation labyrinth.”

The last time Zevran had encountered one was when living under Arainai’s care as she taught him ranger skills, drilling the meditations into his mind with far more care than the Crows had used when making him learn their style of mental focus. Arainai had a stone, almost the size of a dinner plate, carved in a labyrinth that she had made him trace with his fingers, his eyes, his mind until all he had to do was call the image into his mind and he could fall into the state required to listen to the land.

“Similar, yes.” She nodded. More symbols were drawn, linking the square with others. “We’re taught to assign phrases to images, but first we have to learn the images, memorize them until our very breath comes out in these shapes with our thoughts, if that makes any sense. Then we can learn the words and summon the elements needed. Without order there is chaos, but without chaos, there is no order. The Fade is chaos, and our world is order. We pierce the Veil with mage-talent – anyone who develops it can do that much – but to control it, we need these things. Like, Wynne can heal without speaking, for simple things, because she’s been controlling those energies for so long. And any mage can See the energy that passes between the Fade and here, just as anyone with mage talent can pierce the Veil. However, without control, the Veil is torn.”

“That would be bad?” He forced her to take half of his cheese as his head got muzzier, realizing that while the meat hadn’t been drugged, the cheese certainly was. With the earlier attacks, Zevran knew he must keep a clear head. “That is why the mages are locked away in the Towers, yes?”

She sighed, wiping away her drawings with an angry swat. “‘Bad’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Mages are locked away so if we lose control, we are in a concentrated place and can be put down like dogs.”

“The Chantry teaches that magic, or more specifically magic users, are evil.” He stroked her jaw, seeking to soothe her and to gain information. “That such powers breed a desire for more power and make mages mad for it, until they resort to blood magic and wield it over the minds of mankind.”

 _And I have had my fair share of blood magic worked on me._ He worried that it was a possibility – remote though it might be – that Lahar would turn into one of those that Zevran had encountered in the Guild.

“Is the assassin who kills a target evil, or is the person who cared so little for someone else’s life that they would purchase a death, the evil one?” she countered. Lahar grabbed his hand, flipping it over to trace the lines of his palm. “Is the thief who steals food evil, or the noble who taxes the populace into poverty the one in the wrong? Cause and effect. For every reaction there is an equal and opposing reaction. Good and evil are nebulous ideals that people use to categorize things that mean something to them. One person’s evil is another's good. Who are you to judge, who am I to judge, who are _they_ to judge?” The young Warden tapped his palm dead centre on an old scar. “Power is a tool, and like any tool, it can be misused. There is a balance that can be struck, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps,” he conceded. Not that he didn’t agree with Lahar entirely, because he did, but Zevran noted the dark clouds that hung about Lahar’s face, her mind having gone to some place he couldn’t follow. He changed the subject, gently. “Eat the rest and have something to drink. Unlike me, you are not used to doing without. You must keep up your strength.”

She looked as though she wished to protest, then relented. “I suppose you’re right.” She shoved a piece of cheese into her mouth and spoke around it in such a way as to not show off the contents of her mouth. “Did you know there used to be a division in the Tower that wanted us to become physically stronger? To increase our stamina?”

Nabbing the waterskin, Zevran poured some of what looked like tea, but the fragrance was off – letting him know that this too had been altered – into one of the cups the Dalish had provided. “Mmm, would that not make it easier for you to cast under duress?”

“Yes.” She accepted the drink and nibbled on the remaining cheese she had originally brought out for their combined repast. “Knight-Commander Greagoir stopped that right away after this one mage kept using the outdoor exercises as a way to attempt escape. Not that many of the students wanted to take the classes anyway. Most were uncomfortable outdoors. I was only able to attend one or two classes before they were cancelled.” She sipped and made a face, glancing down at her cup. “Needs honey.” She cast a hopeful glance at him that almost made him laugh for how large her eyes went. “Did you happen to bring that chunk of honeycomb with you?”

“Ah, alas, I did not.” He laughed in earnest when Lahar came the closest to pouting he had ever seen. “I have been remiss, _mi diosa_ , please forgive me. Your look makes me sad, and I wish to cry. May I lay my head upon your bosom?”

That gained him the reaction he was looking for. “Oh blood, Zev! Do I _look_ like Wynne to you?”

Pushing at the bottom of her cup, he urged his Warden to drink. “No, you do not. Your bosom is much nicer. Smaller, but nicer. We shall have to see about feeding you more. I have heard that the first thing to go when a woman loses too much weight are her bosoms, and I like yours too much to see them leave.”

“I wouldn’t mind them disappearing entirely.” She tossed the tea back and made the sourest whiskey face Zevran had ever seen in his entire life. “Men see breasts and a small body, and think ‘prey’. If I looked more like a boy, I don’t think I would have encountered the same problems that I have.”

Satisfied that Lahar would soon be well lubricated again, once the drugs kicked in, Zevran gathered her into his arms and lay them down on their sides. “Doubtful. Men who would prey upon anyone do not care much one way or the other if their victim is male or female, _preciosa_. It is the power they crave. It is a reward in and of itself.” He combed his fingers through her long sable locks. “But come, think not on these dark matters. Put them from your mind. There are enough things to worry about without borrowing trouble. Enjoy tonight and tomorrow as much as you can. Who knows when we shall have another such chance to rest away from the prying eyes of our compatriots?”

“You know what, Zev?” The words were half-slurred into his shoulder as the drugs took effect quicker than that morning’s dose.

“Hmm?” Tucking her in closer, Zevran continued stroking Lahar’s hair. When he deemed her relaxed enough, he would tell her the last part of the Bonding ceremony. For now, he would humour her.

“You belong on a mountaintop dispensing wisdom.” Head lolling back, Lahar blinked owlishly. “You’re always coming up with some weird thing that makes too much sense to be thought of by mortals. A hermit, probably nuttier than a Feastday cake, trading pearls of wisdom for cookies.”

Snorting, Zevran closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. “I do believe that you have mistaken me for our large Qunari friend and Wynne, _mi niña_. The only sweet treats I can be bribed with are ones that I can lick off of you. Nor do I go about telling people how to act whilst standing on the proverbial soapbox, unable to accept how the other half lives.”

“You really don’t like her, do you?” In her eyes, hoarfrost had deepened to wintry sky blue, the black of pupils merging with the iris, piercing through Zevran.

Grimacing, Zevran shifted uncomfortably. “Wynne is nice enough, I simply do not care to expose myself to such high and mighty persons overmuch. Their prodding and demands become rather tiring.”

“You mean you don’t like being judged.” A palm pressed to a scar-distorted tattoo on his shoulder that had once been a stylized crow.

“It is not her judgment that bothers me, _pequeña_ , for she is correct – most likely – in her assessments. Only the ignorance and nagging about things that cannot be changed drives me to heights of aggravation.” He gave Lahar’s bottom a pinch through her robes, jolting her in his arms.

Zevran had absolutely no desire to discuss that with Lahar. Not because he particularly minded being thought of as a vile, dirty miscreant – for he was, and there was little way to deny it – but simply because standing on moral high ground required choices, and choices were something that slaves rarely got. While Wynne may have lived her life in the Tower of Magi for the most part, it was secure. She had respect amongst peers and never had to worry where she would find food next or if she were going to be killed by a partner during a job or if the Master Crow who owned her was in a mood and wanting to do a little damage. The mage would have always known that there was a ceiling to any violence done to her, while Zevran hadn’t. Wynne was ignorant, for she had the luxury to be so. All in all, it left a filthy taste in the assassin’s mouth.

 _Maybe I should tell the old bat a story of a training facility? Or maybe about the Crows who show mage Talent during training and are made into blood mages instead of being sent to the Circle? Better yet, ask the_ puta _if she noticed anything different about me as she worked her healing magics?_

“We’re all sheltered from some things, Zevran.” She was staring at him still, cold seeping into his skin where her hand clutched at the mangled tattoo.

He growled. “Let it be, _princesa_.”

This time the Warden changed the subject, to his relief, heeding his warning. “The packs have some weird implements in them. Maybe you could tell me what they are?” Before he could ask what implements she meant, Lahar rolled away, yanking a small bundle from a pack and presenting it to him. “This...it’s needles, and vials.”

A glance was all he needed. “Ah. Tattoos. _Vallasin_ , as the Dalish would say, but not like the ones made for the ritual of attaining adulthood that are on the face, but elsewhere. The last part of the Bonding is to put our marks into the other’s flesh.”

“Oh...” Her gaze tripped over his body, noting once more all the designs in his skin, and Zev cupped her cheek. “It will hurt won’t it?”

“That is why you should drink more of that tea.” He ran his thumb up and down the pulse point of her neck. “The place I think I shall ink tends to be...sensitive.”

Drunkenly Lahar swayed as she sat up straight. “ _That’s_ why you haven’t eaten anything, really.”

“Ah, you have found me out.” He nodded, mirroring her actions, taking the bundle of needles and inks from her grasp. “It will dull the pain. I think I shall mark your neck, here.” He dragged a finger from the corner behind her ear, along the jugular, to her collarbone. “It can be covered by your hair, but also pushed back to reveal it if you ever encounter troublesome Dalish again. It will show you to be adult and claimed even if I am not there, in spite of not being Dalish yourself.”

“And where am I supposed to mark you?” Thankfully, she accepting the wisdom of his suggestion.

He held out his right forearm. “Draw the design here.” He tapped the corded muscle and slightly paler skin of the inner part. “I shall lay the ink in for you. I am originally left-handed, so it will be no trouble to do so, as long as you keep the skin tight for me and hold the ink vials out as I need them. Also, I will need you to wipe away the leakage as it seeps to the surface.”

Lahar took a deep breath and twisted her hair into a loose knot. “I don’t need more tea. A little pain now is worth being sober enough to heal myself afterward.”

He nipped a kiss from her pale lips. “Excellent.”

XXX

da’assan, E - little arrow  
Especia feliz, S - Happy Spice  
pequeña, S - little one  
encantadora, S - enchantress  
Minga, polla, pito, S - all words for penis  
bonita, S - pretty girl/beautiful  
Ah riavati minou cas’theira – meaningless to any other than a mage, words that are more a string of sounds to focus the mind.  
Miasa’annen -meaningless to any other than a mage, words that are more a string of sounds to focus the mind.  
mi cielo, S - my sky  
preciosa, S - precious  
mi diosa, S - my goddess  
mi niña, S - my girl  
puta, S - bitch/whore  
vallasin, E - blood writing/tattoos


	8. Chapter 8

Murder 7  
XXX

Zevran stuck close to Lahar, the trail being blazed by Sten and Alistair after they had been ambushed by Swiftrunner and his band. That had been an encounter that was put an end to quickly, with the lycanthrope fleeing as he – or she? – had before. Normally, the Antivan would prefer to lead in this, as his skills as an assassin and ranger granted him the upper hand in identifying potential problems. However, thus far the forest had proven that it didn’t matter how many problems were identified, they continued to come without abating. So, it was best to let their heavy hitters take the initial attacks, while Zevran guarded Lahar as she cast.

“So how good are you with a bow?” Lahar was reaching ahead with the tip of her staff, testing the ground before planting it and taking another step.

Zevran was walking with the light crossbow held in a relaxed-ready state in the crook of his arm, constantly scanning their surroundings. “Not as good as the fair bard, to be sure, but good enough.”

“I'm surprised, actually,” she commented, casting him a probing glance.

“And why would that be, _mi cielo_?” He held back criticism of how Alistair was clomping along the trail, shoving large, low hanging branches aside with little grace. Instead, he focused on Sten who was sliding along their route almost as nimbly as he himself.

“It's hard to imagine you with anything other than your blades in hand,” she said, jerking her chin towards his shoulders, where the pommels jutted out. “The thought of you with an actual bow in hand seems odd, makes you seem...more elven? I'm not sure how else to describe it.” She took a moment to think about it, eyes moving to the trees, soaking everything up, clearly enjoying the break they were having since the three bears they had dispatched a quarter hour ago. “I thought you wouldn't be so comfortable out here, you seem so much more like...a....”

Supplying the description that was one of the larger reasons Zevran didn't care much for the Ferelden Dalish – they were far too racist – he said, “Flat ear. City-dwelling Alienage elf. _Shemlen_ , in all ways but for the ears.”

“Not quite how I would put it, actually.” She was silent a moment. The sounds of their group were far too loud for his tastes as they kicked up dirt and disturbed the birdsong and chittering of the squirrels who scurried through the trees. “You're more like something that should detach from shadows to strike, not something that should step from behind a tree to attack, but you move here like they do,” she said, referring to the Dalish. “And if you had a bow in hand, not a crossbow, you would blend right in with them.”

His lips quirked in a brief smile. “Ah, an assassin is a master of camouflage, be it forest or city. One never knows when a target will flee to the wilds, rather than hiding in rat holes.”

Alistair had slowed a few paces, proving he had been listening in. “So you just don't let up, do you? Do targets ever escape?”

He nodded. “Oh yes, they escape, but an escape does not mean winning free of being a target. They are always hunted down and killed.”

The almost-Templar stopped. “Soooo...what's that mean for us?”

Shrugging, Zevran reached out a hand to guide Lahar around a tangle of roots covered by fallen leaves. “Others will be sent, of course, once the Crows realize I have failed. And once they find us, they will attempt to kill us most gruesomely or die trying. If we survive enough attempts...well, they will leave off, but always watch for an opportunity to present itself. The Guild is nothing, if not thorough.”

Lahar didn't seem bothered, but Alistair looked disquieted. “We'll deal with that when it happens. Zev, what sorts of places do you think there would be informants?”

“Cities, large trade centers,” he mused aloud. “Most of us are specialists, dealing in crowds. Few are any good outside of such situations. The Master level ones, they tend to be more diverse. One does not survive to reach that rank without some...other skills.”

“So, for the time being, we'll avoid Denerim and Redcliffe. Those are the bigger places. Right, Alistair?” At the _shemlen's_ nod, Lahar continued. “I know you want to see the arl, but we should go as long as possible without detection by Loghain and the Crows. It will be better to have more allies to call upon for backup than to go rushing headlong into ambushes without any.”

Alistair shifted impatiently, hitching his shield higher on his broad shoulders. “If you think that's best, Lahar....”

“I do,” giving the _shemlen_ a coolly measured look as she answered him.

And that was the end of the discussion.

For another half hour they went unaccosted by attackers, until there was a curse from Alistair, who swung his shield forward. “Darkspawn? _Here_?!”

Raising his crossbow to his shoulder, Zevran took aim, letting the bolt fly. A genlock stumbled, clutching at the shaft before falling to its knees then over to its side. By then, the Antivan had reloaded, using the metal claw to draw and set the string, and let loose another. Sten was chanting in Qunlat, swinging his sword in smooth arcs around him. Alistair roared, stomping the ground to draw attention to himself, the move momentarily leaving the Templar open, and Zevran hastened to put another bolt in, aiming for the eye of a charging genlock that threatened the _shemlen_. Two steps to his left was Lahar, her staff pointing imperiously as ice shot from the tip, knocking several darkspawn back.

Then, Zevran had to drop his crossbow and yank his sword and dagger free of their sheaths as some of the Blighted creatures fell upon his and Lahar's position. Spells flew around him, aimed and timed to his movements precisely. The rare arrow coming from a darkspawn's bow whizzed past, which the assassin would lash out at, cutting it from the air before it could strike its target. The meaty and metallic thwack of his blades – hitting armor or flesh, indiscriminately – rang over and over again. A blur of motion that would be dizzying if he weren't in the middle of it, Zevran laughed joyously.

“Now, we play a little!” he crowed at the top of his lungs, when Alistair was sent flying by. Some sort of darkspawn that he had never encountered before roared its challenge at him. Sten was held down by a knot of darkspawn warriors, unable to face the beast, but Zevran danced aside, moving to put himself between Lahar and the massive, horned creature. “Ho ho, you are a _large_ one, my ugly friend!”

It paused, eyeing him, small man that he was, and charged.

Tapping into that inner wellspring of speed, Zevran raced forward, low to the ground, mirroring the beasts' posture. At the last moment, he bounced upwards, like he was running on air, and the sole of his boot met the top of the creature’s head. _Victory goes to the daring!_ was the thought that darted briefly through his mind as he allowed himself to slip down, turning as the darkspawn began to straighten, and buried his blades into its back. Another roar, and Zevran turned his face aside, avoiding the spraying blood from the dual wounds. Using his sword to anchor him, he reached up, slashing at the huge veins in the beast's neck. It swayed a moment, the thick, viscous black blood spurting out in a fountain. Clawing at its neck, large fingers scrambled as if it didn't understand what was happening. Gouting life waters fell in a river, and so too did the darkspawn, swaying drunkenly, then falling down like a tree.

Leaping free as it hit the ground, Zevran somersaulted, checking for Lahar's position.

A hurlock was menacing her, and she swung her staff inexpertly, fending it off by a narrow margin. _Why does she not cast?!_ Incredibly alarmed, he watched with detached fascination as, yet again, she merely swung her staff. Her very unwieldy staff, that Zevran had never paid much mind to. The hurlock went for the weapon even as Zevran sped up to reach her, grabbing the heavily embellished ( _Impractical thing!_ he realized, crying out mentally) staff and yanking it from her grasp, then tossing it aside like a twig. Unarmed and not casting for whatever reason, Lahar was _defenseless_.

Yelling, Zevran sought to distract the creature, but it ignored him. Desperate, Zevran paused long enough to still so he could throw his dagger, the slick ground making it impossible to run and throw at the same time. Bad footing aside, he also had to contend with the fact that he was being flanked. Sudden impact threw the Antivan aside just as he was about to let fly his offhand weapon. _Tchk distracted, in battle no less, such a novice mistake._ Growling in self disgust, he sprang up from the ground to turn and face his opponent. There was no choice.

With a slash at its throat, the genlock that had attacked him fell away, crumpling. He only had enough time to turn and see Lahar take a step forward into the guard of the hurlock that was raising its blade to strike, put her shoulder into its gut, grab its arm and, in one fluid motion, half-dive between its legs to force it over her back. She stumbled backwards, hands outstretched, and a flash of magic accompanied her gasped words, followed by a bolt of ozone-burning energy. This only wounded the darkspawn, but it had bought enough time for him to get there.

Kicking it in the face, Zevran stabbed downwards with his sword, pinning it to the ground, where it struggled, grasping at the blade, gauntleted hands finding no purchase. Jerking his arm to the side, he severed head from neck, spun on a foot, shoulders heaving as he looked about wild-eyed for something else to kill. Blood was thundering in his veins, and he was buoyant with adrenaline; a good portion of him wanted _more_ , to be bathed in it, covered in gore, to have it slide down between the pieces of his armor, to have it cling to his flesh, to glory in the power over life and death.

To steal the last breath and to be the one to _choose_ what lived, what died.

To be the Maker, Himself, and judge everything before him as wanting.

A shock of freezing cold slammed into him, making Zevran flinch. Turning to face this new attacker and defend Lahar, he saw the woman, elf, girl, _wife_ standing beside him, glowing hands hovering near his shoulder. If she was healing him, then the fight must be over, but he couldn't focus. Jingle of armor – that was all the warning the Crow needed – and he brought weapons to bear, heedless of anything else, the healing ice in his veins forgotten, no matter that the sensation continued. He would take on the role of Maker and choose some more.

“Hey – wait!” Alistair shoved his shield at Zevran, batting at the blades.

Voice registering, vision settling down from the pinpoint clarity that only told Zevran of 'weak spots' and 'targets' and 'prey', he pulled back as suddenly as he had started. “Ah, Alistair. I see you survived. Pity.”

“You...you _attacked_ me.” Incredulous, Alistair fumed, battered and bloody, staring down at him. “See! See Lahar, I told you bringing him was a bad idea! You should have brought Leliana. _She_ never would have attacked me!”

“You came from the side Alistair.” Lahar's tone was patient, as though speaking to a child, “We just got done with a fight, his blood is hot. What would happen if he came at you from behind, with no announcement of his presence? You would cleave him in two, pound him with your shield.”

Ignoring the Wardens, Zevran made to gather up any loot that the dead may have on them. It was better than listening to the squabbling. Sten was making himself useful, a large knapsack in hand, inspecting the dead. Joining the Qunari, Zevran set to work. Armor bits were taken, to replace or repair the armor that would inevitably become damaged, or to sell. Since they wouldn't be going to any large towns – let alone cities – any time soon, scavenging was their only real recourse in maintaining decent armor and supplies.

In silence they worked side by side, digging through the corpses, and eventually dragging the dead off to one side. Piling gear and other gewgaws away from the dead, Zevran picked over the remaining bits and pieces while Sten went to begin digging a ditch for the darkspawn. Large items, such as armor and weapons, were put in the knapsack which Zevran would hang from a high tree limb for retrieval later. Small things like the occasional gemstone and glittering gold were tucked into his pack. _And why would they have gold, of all things?_ , he wondered, hefting a pouch in one hand. _It is not as though they barter for anything..._

Sten was focused on his task, and so startled Zevran with a question that was framed as a statement, but the assassin knew it for what it was. “You are more proficient than I thought.”

“Why, Sten, did you think that elves cannot fight?” He rolled a sovereign he had pulled from the purse between his fingers. “Have they no elves in Qun’ari lands?”

“There are elves everywhere.” His voice was gravel and stone, no indication that his chore was difficult.

“Ah, yes, I had heard this.” Nodding, he returned to his own task.

His hand hovered over a long dagger, one with a handle too short for his long fingered grip, yet it was elegantly made, the blade swaying in a gentle curve. Raising it to eye level, the Crow inspected it carefully, noting the twining design etched into its surface. Testing the edge, Zevran cast Lahar a thoughtful glance, even as she was standing there calmly reasoning with Alistair. _She used_ Baile _to hold off that hurlock for a moment, but what if she had not?_ Tucking the weapon into his pack, Zevran decided he must teach her more seriously how to defend herself. That staff of hers was no good for close quarters, and if, for whatever reason, she couldn't cast – and he could think of at least four poisons off the top of his head that would prevent such – she would need something to keep an attacker at bay, at least for a moment, and at worst, to deal with the opponent entirely on her own.

Moving to assist the Qunari with hauling the darkspawn into the ditch that had been dug, he continued the conversation as though there had been no break at all. “Crows are taught many things, my fine Qun’ari friend. Did you think we only used poison and such lures to do the work?”

“Yes.” His answer was simple, harsh, and literal as he began chopping up the very large darkspawn that Zevran had felled.

“Hmn, well then, now you know this is not so.” Keeping his disgust to himself, he neatly picked up a leg and threw it into the hole. “I may strike from shadows and use poison, but I can fight when need be, and -” punctuating this with another dismembered limb following its predecessor, “I suppose this proves that there is a need, no?”

“You are too small to be effective, but you will do,” Sten grunted, which was the closest thing to praise that Zevran had heard for anyone other than Lahar from the Qunari. “At least you are a man.”

He quirked a brow quizzically, stilling in their shared, gruesome labor. “And should I be anything else?”

With a grunt, Sten replied, “Mph, I suppose not.”

XXX

Camp was an informal affair. There was a stream (which Zevran would avail himself of properly as soon as possible since the quick rinse of face, arms and hands before they made camp wasn't enough), and a fire was being laid by Alistair. However, there was no tent. They had opted to keep their packs light, bringing only medicines, some food, bedrolls and a few rucksacks for anything interesting they might find along the way. Lahar was the first to go and wash up, having pulled the longest straw.

He passed her a bowl and his soap, seeing that she hadn't thought of packing any. “Take mine.”

She gave him a grateful smile. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

Bracing his back to a tree once he was free of his armor, he set to buffing the blood off the boiled leather of his cuirass as it rested on his knees. He was shirtless and in little more than a spare set of leggings, the cool air raising gooseflesh over him. The temperature didn't seem to bother Alistair, who had waited until Lahar was out of sight before removing his armor and changing into leggings as well. Sparing the boy a glance, Zevran noted that there was a decent collection of scars on his muscular frame. Sten on the other hand, who had stripped down to his smalls and was quickly and efficiently oiling his armor in broad sweeps, had more scars than the assassin could count.

Ruining what would be an otherwise peaceful and familiar moment, Alistair looked over at him and did a double take. “What are those?”

“Mmn? Talking to me Chantry-boy?” Zevran asked, licking the tip of a sharp canine.

The almost-Templar pointed at the assassin's chest. “Those marks. Are they paint? Like on your face?”

“Ah, tattoos. No they are not paint. Surely you have noticed that before now?” Sighing, he hid his irritation.

“Actually, no; I thought it was paint, like women wear.” Shrugging, he returned to cleaning his armor, but still watched Zevran curiously. “They're not birthmarks, and they're not paint. So what _are_ tattoos?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose with thumb and the middle knuckle of his index finger, “Did you not notice that the Dalish have them as well? And Lahar, too. It is _ink_ , my friend, laid into flesh with needles. It is permanent. Unless, of course, the skin were cut away, but that would mar the canvas and be such a waste.”

“Needles? Sounds painful.” Grabbing the bottle of armor oil, Alistair began to work it into the metal. “So, was it very painful?” he prompted, when Zevran hadn't answered.

Mierda! _Does the boy ever stop asking questions?_

Pursing his lips, Zevran didn't look up. “Yes. Quite painful, actually, and it takes many hours of work. My first tattoos were quite uncomfortable, but now I enjoy it. There is something to be said for relaxing into the pain, allowing it to send you deep into a meditative state.” Raising his right arm partially, he showed off Lahar's design that he had tapped into his own flesh. “But the results are remarkably beautiful. This is the one Lahar made for me. Quite elegant and lovely, yes?”

Alistair left off his chore, taking the bared arm as an invitation to examine it, rolling it up towards his chest so he could better see the inner part, and Zevran curled his fingers closed reflexively. “Looks like circles made of vines or something.”

He shrugged. “It is more delicate in nature than many of mine, true, which were hammered in with a long line of needles set into a handle. Such a method for tapping in the ink does not lend itself to these lacy ones like Lahar chose for me. Since she is unfamiliar with the art herself, I did the work.”

“So, what about the one on her neck? Did she design that too?” This gave Zevran an opportunity to send the boy packing. “She's pretty enough without it, but I suppose it looks good.”

“No, that is _my_ mark upon her, as her husband. I had to do so as part of the ritual,” sliding his gaze up to stormy brown eyes. “It is a brand for all to see and know she is married, Bonded, in the Dalish fashion. Even the elves of the Alienages will know it for what it is.”

Recoiling, Alistair dropped his arm as though it were a hot rock. “Oh.”

“Is there something wrong, dear Alistair?” asking it with false sweetness, Zevran smiled minutely.

“No, no, nothing's wrong.” He backed away, and pointedly stayed silent for the remaining time that Zevran worked on his armor.

He ducked his head to cover his grin. _I did promise, after all, to fend off unwanted suitors._

His task finished, Zevran began to leave, thinking to join Lahar, but Alistair interrupted. “Going somewhere?”

“I need to piss. Do you wish to hold my hand, Alistair? I assure you that I have been doing this on my own longer than you have been alive and need no assistance.” Cocking his head to the side, he gave the warrior a languid once-over. “But if you wish to join me, we could do something else afterwards...? Perhaps I could show you some of my more _interesting_ artwork?”

Making a face of disgust, Alistair backed down. “No, that'll be quite alright. Just don't go too far. Lahar's probably still bathing and would want privacy.”

Sten made a noise, barely audible, but Zevran heard it even if Alistair didn't. Frankly it sounded like a strange version of a laugh, almost. Not quite, but almost. Definitely the closest the Antivan had ever heard before from the large Qun’ari, so Zevran took it as such.

Now Zevran smiled, resting his weight on one foot, leaning forward. “Ah, but she has nothing I have not already explored. What is privacy between a man and woman who are Bonded?”

So saying, he left the tiny camp.

Finding Lahar was no trial; she was truly within a few yards of the camp, no more than shouting distance, in case of attack. She was pulling on her robes, hair dripping wet and bound up atop her head, small rivulets of water trickling down her neck. It made the cloth cling to her small curves, the collar of her robes glued to her skin, which was tugged away from flesh with a little grunt of dissatisfaction. Slipping closer, Zevran watched. This was one of his favorite things about women, the intimate moments that were unguarded as they dressed or undressed, unaware of being watched. There was something undeniably sensual about it, no matter that sensuality was not the general goal.

Leaning against a tree, braced with a forearm, Zevran carefully snapped a twig with his boot as he spoke. “ _Mi cielo_ , you look particularly ravishing today.”

“Ravishing? Mm, likely story.” Unpinning her hair and bending over to twist it, she squeezed more water out of the long locks. “Are you going to make a habit of watching me bathe?”

Watching as she finished, and approached him, Zevran smiled. “If that is an invitation, then, why yes, I do believe I shall.”

She presented him with his soap and bowl. “It wasn't, but my last two baths have been spied on by you, so I was only wanting to know if you were going to make it a habit.”

“And would you protest if I said yes?” Accepting the bowl with one hand while wrapping the other around her waist, he tugged her closer. “I find it quite relaxing to watch you bathe, _princesa_. Besides, I like to think of it as a reward for ensuring no others disturb you as you wash.”

Expression quizzical, she asked, “What are you doing, Zev?”

He leaned down, closer to her face. “Speaking with you, of course.”

“Fine, let me rephrase that.” She rolled her eyes at him. “What are you planning on doing?”

“This,” he responded, kissing her.

There was a brief moment when he thought she wouldn't open her mouth to him, that the mage would prove the offer of being able to take a kiss whenever he so desired was false. Suddenly, that seemed important, the hope that not everything had been the drugs from the Bonding ritual. Lips parted, allowing him entrance, and Zevran let the bowl and soap fall to the ground unheeded. Wet hair tangled in his fist as Zevran tilted her head so he could gain better access. Hands went to his chest, seeking balance, as Lahar made a tiny noise of surprised delight at his onslaught.

Tearing away from her lips, Zevran licked at the tattoo on her neck possessively. Lahar's voice was distinctly breathy beside his ear. “Zev, not here.”

He whispered huskily in her ear. “I must apologize for the other evening, _princesa_. You were right. I should have informed you of my intention. Please, allow me to beg your forgiveness properly.”

A hint of warning threaded through her tone. “No begging.”

He nipped at the tip of her ear delicately. “But I beg so well. And I wish to. I insist.”

“Zev...” She was cut short by the wet slide of tongue over hypersensitive cartilage.

Working the hem of her robes up, Zevran rubbed her inner thigh. “Please, _hermosa pequena mia_ , allow me this.” He nuzzled at her cheek. “You were in a bad position today, _bonita_ , let me feel how real you are. Let me make up for my failure in protecting you, both from others and myself.”

She whimpered as his fingers swept gently along the edge of her smallclothes. “The others are nearby...”

“Then you shall have to be quiet, so we do not disturb them,” moving to nip at her lips, Zevran breathed the words against her mouth.

Lahar bit her lip, then licked his, and Zevran knew he had her. Turning so that his back was to the tree, Zevran continued kissing her, adjusting his stance so he could take her full weight pressed against him, and pushed aside the crotch of her underthings. Fingers delved into her slit, parting the folds, and he plied her clit skillfully, feeling her buck against his palm. Breaking from her mouth, Zevran gave her other ear the attention he had given the first, staring over her head the whole time at Alistair. He had heard the approach minutes ago, almost as soon as he had begun kissing his lady mage, though Lahar obviously hadn't, no doubt too distracted.

 _I thought you might come looking._ Grinning his wolfish triumph at the _shemlen_ , he was completely uncaring that he was putting on a display. The almost-Templar couldn't _see_ anything, after all, could only tell that Lahar's face was buried in Zevran's shoulder, that her hips were moving to his touch. Alistair was frozen, white-faced in shock, brown eyes wide with horror and embarrassment.

Narrowing his eyes at Alistair, Zevran bared his teeth, suddenly thrusting his fingers into Lahar's channel, making her gasp and moan before it was muffled by teeth biting into his shoulder. _You are so pathetic it is almost comical,_ he thought, sneering at the intruder. _Your sense of propriety and protectiveness is misguided and unwanted, boy. Go._

As if he could sense Zevran's thoughts, he backed away with greater silence than the elf would have given him credit for. Satisfied that they were alone once more, Zevran refocused his full attention on Lahar. He hadn't been lying when he told the mage he wished to apologize or to reassure himself that she had come away from the day’s fighting unscathed. Returning to her mouth, Zevran bade her put her arms around his shoulders and hoisted her up. Legs went around his waist, locking as he stepped away from the tree, turned with her in his grasp once more, and pushed her to the trunk. Giving her sex one more caress, he pulled himself free of his leggings, rubbing against her core through the linen of her smalls.

“I wish to have you,” nibbling at her throat, Zevran groaned, asking permission in his own way.

A gasped “Please!” was paired with undulating hips that ground against his manhood where it was trapped between them.

Supporting her weight with his hands on her bottom. “You will have to move the fabric aside, _mi cielo_ , my hands are,” squeezing firm flesh, “full.”

She wiggled a hand down and did as he asked, giving him exactly what he wanted. The coupling was frenzied, fast, and over far too quickly, but satisfactory for Zevran's needs as he pulled out after she came, allowing himself to spill outside of her sheath. _No need for her to bathe fully again._ He remained pressed to her tightly, cheek lying against her shoulder while her fingers stroked his neck and shoulders.

“Did you know you're actually very pretty?” It was a sighing, hesitant question.

Yes, he did know he was pretty. He knew he was attractive, at least, to so many others. Zevran had borne the experiences to engender that knowledge, some of it carved into long-healed flesh. But did he know that Lahar saw him that way? No, Zevran didn't and hadn't thought to ask.

“You think so?” murmuring into the column of her throat, his lips brushed over the purple and black ink he had embedded there. A sharp swirl, framed by seven dots, and a curling, heavily stylized 'V' that connected to another, creating an almost unidentifiable 'Z' wound along the tendon and vein. Most any who saw it would probably think it a strange design, not noticing the letters that formed the consonants of his name. If he squinted in this position, the 'V' looked more like an 'L'. Tongue flicking out to trace the letters slowly, he murmured, “No, I did not know you thought me 'pretty'. Others, yes. I have been told that in so many words – most commonly 'handsome' – but from you, _mi vida_ , no. I did not expect to hear such a sentiment.”

“Oh.” Lahar pressed her cheek to his forehead, her cool breath tickling the tip of his ear as she spoke. “You're very pretty. Not like a girl, but pretty like a man. Beautiful even.”

Chuckling under his breath, he shifted so he could stand even closer to her. “Hmn, are you saying you find me attractive, _mi niña_?” He rubbed his face into her cloth-covered shoulder a moment. “Then, it is good I know.”

She was quiet, the silence stretching between them. However, this silence was filled with soft breathing and being held tight. Zevran had to admit to himself, at least in the confines of his own mind, that he liked it. _How long has it been since someone simply held me for the sake of holding me?_ He was surprised that she didn't ask if he found her attractive, though, even more than he was surprised by how comfortable it was to simply stand there holding her, as she held him. Perhaps he should mention it at some point; women were notoriously insecure about their appearance and desirability.

The light was failing, and soon it would be dark. If they didn't return to Sten and Alistair soon, one or both of them would come looking. In spite of the visible – cruel, even – display Zevran had given Alistair, the warrior would feel it necessary to check on them again. Probably with Sten alongside him this time.

Carefully, Zevran let Lahar's legs slip from him. “We should not tarry much longer, _pequeña_. Night falls, and it would not be prudent to be caught unarmed as we are.”

Lahar leaned into him a moment, regaining her feet. “I'm never unarmed. Mage – remember?”

Zevran held his hand out to her, frowning. “You did not show that you were armed very well earlier today. Why did you not cast and smite that hurlock into the Pit?”

“Because,” she began, bending down to pick up the forgotten bowl and soap, “I ran out of mana. I could have used a lyrium potion, but we should save what I've got, I think. It's not cheap or easy to come by. Besides...” She finally took his hand; her fingers smooth and uncalloused, in direct opposition to the way his were. “I had a handle on it. I knew you would come.”

He made a face. “You should not be so unarmed, ever, Lahar. Knowing a few moves of _El Baile_ does not make you impervious to damage, _nor_ well-armed.” He tugged her along, his much better night vision suited to the murky light. “I think when we return to the Dalish, I shall have to undertake broadening your education in these matters.”

Lahar stopped, forcing him to face her. “I didn't mean to make it sound like I was being flippant, Zevran or like I was depending on you too much, but I _knew_ you were on your way, and I knew all I had to do was to buy some time. That's all.”

“As you say,” he conceded, inclining his head towards her. “However, I insist – nay, _demand_ – that you begin bearing something more functional than that stick. It is useless.”

“It's a perfectly good staff!” Her eyes went wide in incredulity. “A very functional, practical and useful mage staff.”

“Oh?” He worked at maintaining a mild tone. “What does it do, exactly? It is top heavy, too long to strike wisely and is not even attractive. I have handled it a few times myself since this afternoon, and yes, it does make my skin crawl to hold it for very long, as if it contains some sort of charge. That does not make it a wise weapon in battle.”

Lahar was frowning now, color blooming in her cheeks. “It boosts my mana, makes me stronger, makes me able to hold larger quantities of mana. It lets me cast longer and helps me regenerate mana faster. And it doesn't have to be attractive!”

“Hmph.” Not giving up, Zevran bulled ahead. “And what happens when you have no mana, the fight still continues, and you have no way to use it as a close-quarters weapon? If I had not been there, or if no one was near – what would you do in that situation?”

“...I'd take a lyrium potion.” Her jaw was locked, and Zevran watched in fascination as the tendon flexed, standing in stark relief.

Countering, he continued, “And if you had no lyrium potions? Or if you did not have the few seconds necessary to take a lyrium potion?” Snapping his fingers as though the idea had just occurred, he said, “Or what if you had been poisoned? Hmm? I know of many poisons that take a mage's power out of commission for quite some time. Some of them even kill mages, while leaving non-mages unaffected.” He leaned down so they were on eye level. “What would you do then?”

Her nostrils flared and she attempted to pull her hand from his grasp. “I would get out of it somehow.”

“Ah, the impetuousness of youth.” He was mocking her now, very softly. “You are far from immortal, _preciosa_. There may come a time when what little you know of _El Baile_ cannot save you, when your magic cannot, when someone else cannot. You must be prepared for all things, or you will fall.” Cupping her chin, Zevran forced Lahar to look up at him. “So, tell me. What you would do then?”

“I would die.” The admission was forced between gritted teeth, and Zevran noticed absent-mindedly how long her lashes were, how large and luminous those hoarfrost white-grey-blue eyes were, as they stared at him, hard.

He nodded. “Yes, you would die, and, depending on the enemy, that may take a very, very, _very_ long time. By then it would even be a relief.” Still holding her hand, still pinching her chin between thumb and forefingers with the other, he looked at her intently. “So, you will learn to use something more practical for such instances. It may be a little something to save you, either by killing a foe or yourself, if need be.”

“I doubt I will ever need to kill myself.” There was a defiant gleam in her eyes.

Releasing her chin, Zevran looked away. “We may all have that belief, but there may come a time when such knowledge is your only way out.”

“I'm not a coward, and suicide is the coward’s way out,” she said, jerking against his hold.

Barely containing the flinch at her harsh tone, Zevran shook his head. “When there is nothing here for you but pain, torture and anguish, or when the knowledge in your head is worth too much – too dangerous to divulge to a foe, for the sake of others' safety – then it is not the coward’s way out. It is the _only_ way out. Discount it if you must, but I will still show you how to do it and do it quickly.”

“I will always persevere.” For a second, Zevran thought she would stomp her foot, but she didn't. Lahar only glared. “I didn't make it as far as I have by not looking for other options. Being a mage isn't all fun and games. It isn't for the weak. The weak die, become possessed or are made Tranquil. Yet here I am, and I will not back down.”

Refusing to let go of her hand, Zevran yanked her to him. “I only say these things because someone must. Others may be content to hide behind you, but I cannot afford to. I shall take the brunt as much as I am able, yet there will come a time when you will have to stand in front of even me, and if you are incapable of knowing all your options, then you are being young and foolish. You are young, but I do not think you foolish, Lahar.”

“We are all of us fools, Zevran.” Her voice evened out, that curtain of ice threatening to descend. “Some more than others. And you don't have to stand between me and everything else. Isn't it supposed to be my protection you're seeking, not the other way around?”

Sighing, gentling his expression, Zevran passed a hand over Lahar's hair, smoothing it. “ _Si_ , we are all fools. Such very diverse fools. We shall protect each other then, as it is mutually beneficial, and we can be fools together.” He stroked the back of his hand over her cheek. “Do not be angry for hearing things you do not like. Is it not better to have knowledge and not need it, then to have no knowledge and need it?”

Lahar rested her head against his chest, beating her head against his collarbone softly a few times, muttering, then gathered herself, squeezing his hand in hers. “A hermit on a mountain, dispensing wisdom for cookies. I swear. That's what you are.”

Now Zevran smiled. “And nuttier than a Feastday cake, I believe.”

“Exactly.” She stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek, and Zevran knew that she would be less difficult to convince on the wisdom of certain training regimens from now on. “Now, let's go see what Alistair has made for dinner. I'm really hungry.”

He made a sour face as he guided them back to the camp. “And suddenly I am not, any longer. You shall eat my portion if it is too despicable.”

“Promise?” There was a hint of hopefulness in her voice as they entered the light of the campfire.

Neither Sten nor Alistair looked at them.

Zevran noted the wild flush on the young man's face, but ignored it as he nodded to Lahar. “Of course. But if it is too foul, maybe even you should not eat it, hungry or not. I assure you that things that taste that bad are just as terrible on the way out.”

“Hey, you're talking about my cooking!” Alistair finally spoke, holding out two sticks of…whatever it was that the _shemlen_ called food. “Sten ate it just fine, and so did I!”

Accepting both sticks, he offered one to Lahar. “Alistair, it is blackened.” He pointed at the squirrel, or maybe rabbit, if it was so overcooked that it had somehow shrunk. “How you got as large as you are with food like this, I know not. Is it...” he poked at the meat, a piece of char flaking free, “Even chewable?”

Beside him, Lahar noisily chomped on her split animal du jour. “Hey, it's not as bad as you think. Just...” He watched as Lahar's face scrunched side to side, having to use a great deal of muscle, it looked like to Zevran. “Have to work at it a little.”

“See?” On the verge of preening, the youth straightened. “Lahar knows good Ferelden cooking when she sees it! You're just too picky, Zevran.”

Lahar swatted his shoulder gently, giving him a look, as Alistair waited expectantly, and Zevran rolled his gaze heavenward. “Fine. But if I break a tooth on this, I am going to be quite put out.”

“It is nighttime, _kadan_ , and you cast many spells,” Sten rumbled, speaking as was his wont when tired of having to listen to too much talking. “You should take first watch. I suggest the others should sleep, once they finish their meal, and give you time to rest. You will not be strong enough for tomorrow if you wear yourself too thin.”

So many words at once made Zevran's brows climb high on his head, to what felt like his hairline. He gave Lahar and Sten an appraising look. _That is the most downright...fluffy...thing I do believe I have ever seen in my life._

The young Warden smiled, reaching out to lay a hand on the Qunari's massive forearm. “Thank you, Sten. I will make sure to wake you at next watch.”

There was an odd expression that Zevran realized was almost a smile, more of a relaxing of the stern lines than a movement of lips. “As you will, _kadan_.”

 _Now I know why Leliana insists on saying he is a 'softie',_ settling down next to Lahar, and attempting to eat the 'meal' Alistair had prepared. _Truly, who would have believed it?_ The fire crackled to itself, and the forest came alive with night sounds, singing its own music, which was joined by the not-so-melodious snuffles and snores of sleep from their two other companions. Draping an arm over Lahar's shoulders, Zevran pulled her in closer and gave her the rest of his meal.

She looked at it, then back up to him. “You need to keep your strength up, too.”

“If you can stomach it, then you should eat it,” he said, pressing it to her hands. “I find it rather disgusting, and eating it will only make me ill. While you, on the other hand, seem to be able to eat it. So, eat you shall, otherwise, I fear it will simply go to waste.”

Her voice was pitched so it wouldn't carry. “I know it's bad, but it's food, Zev. If you keep deciding to hold out until the food is good, you may be half-starved by the time you get something 'decent'.”

“As I informed you already, _mi cielo_ , I am fully capable of doing without. Besides, we have trail bread for the morning and nuts for lunch. It is not as though I will be starving myself,” he said, hoping to reassure her. The incident earlier, where she had run out of mana, worried him. _She said that this gathering of mana for spells, and the very spells themselves take much of her energy, and with all this physical activity,_ again pressing her to take the remainder of his portion, _she may not last long. And are not Blights things that take time to face? Even with unified fronts, which is a luxury we do not have?_ “Lahar, eat, then lean against me. I shall keep watch with you.”

She protested, “You need sleep and food Zevran. I don't care if you say you can do without, there will be times when we all have to do without. So eat now, while you have the option. Sleep when you have the chance, for you can't be sure when you will again.”

Sighing, he explained, “Lahar, I will not be able to sleep here. There are too many factors that will interfere. My guard cannot relax in this situation enough for me to even attempt it, and so rather than seek frustration in a futile pursuit, I will do without.”

Squirming, sitting up against him, Lahar frowned. “I can put a sleep spell on you.”

“Do not waste mana.” Shaking his head, Zevran stroked the swell of her hip. “I shall be fine and meditate, as I have for most of the evenings spent in your group.”

That didn't satisfy her at all, it was clear. “It isn't a waste. If you're too tired in the coming days while we look for Witherfang, then what good will you be in a fight? It's as bad as if I used up all my mana and lyrium. Dangerous, too.”

He caught her hand before it started to dance in the forms of a rune. “No. It will be far more dangerous for me to sleep with these others so close, out in the open. I will not awaken in a pleasant state as I do with you. I will attack and not stop until I am put down. It is automatic, drilled into me. I can go days, weeks, a month or a little more, if need be, without full sleep. It will cost me if I must go too long, but I can do it. Eat, sleep and replenish yourself, Lahar. Do not worry. I have slept quite well the last week or so, far better than in times past. Let it lie.”

“In the morning I'll put a rejuvenation glyph on you, and every morning,” she said, relenting, for which Zevran was glad.

 _“Como desees, mi diosa,”_ he replied, kissing her hand and letting it go.

XXX

Sten had awoken around midnight, sat up on his pallet, and eyed Zevran. “I shall take watch.”

“No,” he said, waving the offer off. “I will not sleep this night. I am rested well enough.”

 _“Vashedan.”_ Snorting, Sten lay back down.

With no further interruptions, Zevran let his muscles relax. His mind opened, and he listened with ears that were not purely physical. The forest sang, but it was discordant, hollow, as though something vastly important was missing or out of place.

 _The forest is sick._ He turned his head so he could press his ear to the trunk of the tree he and Lahar had made their resting place. _It stinks of fouled blood beneath the sap and loam. Tree spirit, if you are here, speak to me._ Nothing replied, maintaining its brooding silence. Left nothing better to do, Zevran joined the forest in its brooding as well, staring at nothing, mind not quite blank, but at rest nonetheless.

XXX

“It looks like a cozy camp.” Alistair glanced around, scratching his head. “Water, bedding, tents, a fire even. Look, we've been out here two days, maybe we should...?”

Sten growled. “Too convenient. However, it _is_ defensible.”

“There's something off.” Lahar was frowning, squinting at the camp. “Stay alert, let's look around a little more first, before we decide to rest here.”

A deep lethargy swept through Zevran, and all he wanted to do was sit by the fire and relax. “Alert? I can barely keep my eyes...open....”

Suddenly, he was alarmed by that, and Zevran jerked up straight from where he had been poking around in one of the low laying tents. Backing out, shaking his head, Zevran smacked his face several times, and then he heard Lahar's voice cracking in that liquid language she used to cast. Spinning around, dagger and sword in hand as fast as a blink, he was attacking the shade that was looming up, swirling smoke where feet should be. Or where something should be.

The fight was fast, confined as it was, with only Sten having fully fallen under the shade's sleep spell, and then the truth of the camp was revealed in gruesome detail. Bones were scattered everywhere, and there was even a desiccated corpse or two amongst them, lying as if in repose.

“Dear Maker,” it was breathed in horrified mystification by Alistair, staring down at the remains.

“It's like the Sloth demon.” Lahar poked the edge of her staff into a pile of bones, making them rattle hollowly, her expression tight as she caught his eye. “Zevran, could you get that chest if it's locked?”

Doing as he was asked, Zevran went to a sturdy travel trunk and worked the lock, knowing he needed the practice, but hating it anyway. _Locks? I hate locks._ Fumbling with a pick and wire, he shifted his grip on the tools, eyes closed as he listened to the tumblers, counting them as they clicked open and closed. _This is what Rinna was for...._ The thought was sour, leaving an acrid taste in the back of his throat, that the Crow had to hang onto, using the strange emotion as fuel when the frustration was getting to him. Finally the lock was conquered, and not even bothering to examine the contents, Zevran simply shoveled everything into his pack.

Hefting it back onto his shoulders, he commented, “My dear Alistair, I do believe you should be carrying some of this soon.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure,” he said, holding out his hands, waiting.

Zevran waved it aside. “Lahar can split it up later. It is not so heavy that I cannot carry it, only that my pack is almost full.”

Later that night, Lahar was peering over his shoulder, reaching past him to grab at items in curiosity.

Giving up finally, he handed the pack to her. “Why not simply take a look for yourself, _bonita_? I have armor to care for.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to be nosy.” However, she accepted the pack with what looked suspiciously like glee.

Shaking his head, Zevran twisted his hair up, forming a loop that was held loosely by his tied back braids. Allowing his mind to slip into blankness, armor brush in hand, he leaned into the leather of his armor to clean it. The smell of sweat-stained leather wasn't unpleasant at all, almost a warm musk that reminded Zevran of some of the oils worn in Antiva, and for a moment he was homesick. Ferelden was too wet, but that may have just been because they were tromping through backwoods and mountain passes constantly, rather than on true roads.

A brief flash of memory, of the heat and wet at the edge of the Arlathan jungle, traveling with Arainai and her tribe, crossed his mind. She had been showing him some of the more varied poisons and how they were made from frogs' venom, extracted from living creatures that were slowly sweated near a fire, the poison gathering in tiny bowls. Ferelden bore no resemblance, other than the dampness, to Antiva and its surrounding provinces. Frogs here weren't poisonous, and while Zevran was sure there were venomous snakes, they probably kept mostly to swamps. No, here poisons came only from plant-life and spiders. Squeezing the long, flat, short bristled brush, Zevran found himself wondering if he would ever see his fair land again.

 _If I manage to get through this Blight, I do believe I shall have to return._ This would still be a problem, as he had failed in his contract. Of course, even if he did fill the contract, it was still too late, and not worth the trouble. _Perhaps I shall simply take up a Crow Master’s title, and play the Game? Pah, that will mean I have to coddle idiots and watch_ Culminaciónes _, as well as make deals, do_ paperwork _. Ugh. Maybe I should just take some poison and be done with it! Would be far less troublesome._

Feeling eyes on him, Zevran saw Lahar watching him intently, something folded up in her hands. “You wish something of me, _mi cielo_?”

“Your gloves,” she pointed to the vambraces he had taken apart so he could see if there was a way to mend them. Some spirit-mad tree had attacked them around midday and somehow thrust roots up through his forearm – which was currently bandaged, stitched and had several healing spells put on it – punching a dual set of holes in the thick leather. “May I see them?”

Flicking his fingers he gave his permission. “Help yourself.” _As you have helped yourself to my pack, why ask permission now? Tchk, women, always wanting to poke around in things... Possibly because they do not have a penis to poke others with?_ Shrugging mentally, Zevran checked over his blades for nicks.

The mage was inspecting the gloves, rolling them in her hands, and from the corner of his eye, Zevran watched her hold up some ornate leather to his damaged vambraces. Seeing that she would be amused at least for a little while, Zevran rose to go check the snare next to that rabbit hole he found earlier. As if to make up for the earlier bad luck of the day, the snare was holding a half-dead rabbit, a state that he quickly remedied. He returned to their camp at a brisk walk with his prize, only to halt at seeing Lahar, having exited the range of the fire's glow, peering about her as if she were looking for something.

Pulling shadow around him, Zevran snuck up on her until he was right behind her shoulder, then dropped it. “ _Mi vida_ , I do not advise going off on your own in this place at such hours.” His voice made her flinch for its nearness, but he wrapped his free arm around her waist, pulling her back flush to his chest. “You never know what wolves may be prowling about.” Taking a deep inhale at the nape of her neck. “And you smell good enough to eat. The scent alone may make such predators go wild.”

“I was looking for you.” Shivering in his arms, Lahar tilted her head to the side, so he could nuzzle the pale skin further. “Besides, I smelled you when you got closer, but before you were right on me. Since I'm fairly sure you wouldn't attack me out of turn, I knew I was safe enough.”

“You were looking for me, so close to camp?” Kissing her ear, flicking it with the tip of his tongue. “Really now, _mi diosa_ I was not aware that you were such an exhibitionist.”

An elbow jabbed his side. Lahar said, pointedly, “Not for _that_. I wanted you to have something.”

Growling into her ear so the vibration would travel the small distance. “And it does look like I have something, yes?” Squeezing her and rubbing his pelvis against her back, he purred, “But this time we will have to be _very_ quiet, so as to not alert the others.”

“Zev,” warning, Lahar stepped away from him, which he allowed.

“Mm, if not for _that_ , then why were you looking for me?” Puzzled, Zevran didn't think Lahar would just waltz out from camp for many reasons, or that she would have many reasons to look for him, other than for a little one-on-one play.

The Warden pushed something into his chest, holding it there, a look of annoyance painting her features. “I think you should have these.”

Accepting the object with his free hand, Zevran only gave them a glance then was looking back at her. “Gloves? You are giving me _gloves_?”

“Well if you don't want them or need them, then give them back. I suppose maybe I could use them.” Hands on her hips, Lahar frowned up at him. “But I think they would suit you better.”

As she made to stalk off, Zevran took a closer look at the gloves. “Wait. Lahar, wait. Please.”

“What?” She stopped, back to him. For all her being so petite, Lahar gave off that larger-than-life aura she drew around her when she was agitated.

“These are Dalish,” his grip tightened around the embroidered leather.

“I thought as much.” Her shoulder lifted in a half shrug, but still, she did not turn toward him. “It's why I thought they would suit you more than me.”

Holding the gloves close to him, Zevran found himself asking, “What do you want for them?”

“They're a gift, Zev.” Now she turned to him, cocking her head in clear confusion, “Your gloves are trashed. They could be mended probably, but we don't have the materials. Those look to be the right size, and so you should just take them. It's the nature of a gift – something given simply because someone needs or wants it, or the giver simply feels like giving. Hasn't anyone ever given you a gift before?”

Swallowing the lump that suddenly formed in his throat, Zevran blurted, “No one has ever given me a gift, no, not as such.”

“Oh.” And like that, she was there, touching his wrist. “I'm sorry.”

“When I was a boy in the whorehouse,” the words welled up unbidden, “I had only one thing of my mother's, a set of gloves. They were Dalish, possibly kept as a reminder to her of what she was, who she had been once. For me, they were a thing of dreams. I would stare at them for hours, whenever I had the chance, making up...many things about the Dalish, my mother, myself, and the world outside.”

Fingers hovered over his cheek, then made contact, the touch soothing, as Lahar urged him to continue. “Is that why you left the Guild? To search for the Dalish?”

He nodded, mouth dry. “In part, yes. I hid them and was able to take them with me to the Guild. Eventually they were discovered, and I never saw them again. Sentiment of any sort is forbidden by the Crows. And these...” crushing the leather even more, he gestured with them minutely before bringing them back to his chest, “...are much like the ones my mother left me. The embroidery is not as fine, and the leather is thicker, but...they are very similar.”

“Keep them Zevran, wear them, they're yours now.” She wrapped her hands over the one that held the gloves. “And now you've received your very first gift, and I hope you get more from now on.”

He shuddered. “Am I surprised by this? Yes... Why would you give them to me, Lahar? Why?”

“Because you needed gloves and because I wanted to. That's the nature of gifts, understand?” Taking the rabbit that was still dangling from the lax grip of his offhand, she continued, “Besides, you're the one who unlocked the chest they were in, so it's apropos, I think.”

“Ah, they were in there?” He was glad to have a reason not to focus so much on the fact that he was holding the only gift he had ever been given, and so tightly he feared he might mar the leather.

A tiny smile tilted her lips upwards. “Well, I said I would re-distribute the spoils to those who needed them.”

“And here I thought you merely wished to rummage through my pack, the way all women like to dig in a man's belongings.” Snorting, Zevran leaned down to rest his forehead against hers. “So, might I give you a kiss as payment for being nosy and rummaging through the treasures we have won?”

Lahar gave his shoulder a gentle push. “Not in payment.”

“Hmm, then I shall give you one because I want to.” Swooping down, Zevran brushed his mouth over hers, lightning fast. “Shall we return to the others and make a decent meal out of rations and this coney?”

Looping an arm through his offered elbow, she gave him one of her tiny smiles. “We shall!”

XXX

mi cielo - my sky  
shemlen - quick children/human  
Baile - Dance  
princesa - princess  
hermosa pequena mia - my beautiful little one  
bonita - pretty girl  
mi vida - my life  
mi niña - my girl  
pequeña - little one  
preciosa - precious  
Si - yes  
kadan - place where the heart resides  
Como desees - as you wish  
mi diosa - my goddess  
Vasheden - crap/shit  
Culminaciónes - Culminations


	9. Chapter 9

XXX

Murder 8

XXX

It wasn't the werewolves, for none of them had been bitten, nor was it any blow that he hadn't prevented from falling nor a trap that he hadn't disarmed. However, Zevran wasn't entirely sure what it was that caused Lahar to go still, make a small strangled noise, clutch her temples and collapse. He had been vigilant in guarding her and guiding the party through the labyrinthine ruins that they had come across. As for Sten and Alistair, they had ensured that only a few enemies got anywhere near Lahar's position, and Zevran had, of course, quickly dispatched them.

Diving for her as the Warden crumpled, Zevran caught her before she hit the floor. His knees were skinned against broken flagstones, but he was staring down at her wild-eyed. Shoving hair away from her face, Zevran checked her pulse. It was thready, but there.

“What the hell?” Alistair was glaring around him, searching for any hidden adversaries, but there were none to be found.

Shrugging out of his pack, Zevran began unfastening his breastplate. “I do not know what is wrong with her. She needs a healer. I am going back to the Dalish.” Dropping the leather, he said, “Sten, Alistair, follow behind me, as fast as you can.”

“What?!” Alistair raised his sword as though he would strike. “You can't just leave with her!”

The Sten stopped the youth, a heavy, gauntleted hand on his shoulder. “The elf is the swiftest.”

He scooped up the youngest Warden and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. “She requires Wynne's magic. Or even Zathrian's. Whoever, it matters not. Continue on without me, or follow – it is your choice – but I am going _now_.”

“You will need water.” The Qun’ari held out two waterskins, dangling and looking small in comparison to his monolithic size.

Snatching the botas from him, Zevran draped them over his neck. “Thank you.”

Without a backwards look, he was sprinting.

XXX

Muscles burned like fire, thighs strained, feet pounded, Lahar's hanging arms thudded against his buttocks, and on Zevran ran. Every fifteen minutes he slowed to a jog for fifteen then picked up speed once more, pacing himself as much as he could allow. The pattern made his lungs ache, wind whipping his hair with hard fingers behind him. It was as if his feet barely touched the ground before being in the air again, and he didn't bother to worry about the noise he was making.

Time was of the essence.

Mind blank, he swerved, avoiding a tree, leapt over a root and landed badly; falling forward, free hand reaching out to touch the ground, he pressed himself onward. Some distant part of his brain kept the time, measuring the traveling light that filtered through the trees, and an hour later, Zevran slowed. Swinging Lahar down from his shoulders, he checked her pulse once more, put his ear near her lips, listened for breathing. It was hard to hear, next to impossible really, over the pounding of blood in his veins, his own breathing like a bellows. Propping her up against a tree, Zevran unstopped a waterskin, forcing himself to drink slowly.

“Aie, _mi cielo,_ what has done this to you?” Shaking his head, Zevran calmed his racing and shuddering body, taking as much of a break as he could.

Of course, the mage didn't answer.

“Tchk, fine.” He took a long pull and re-corked the skin. He heaved Lahar back onto his shoulder, switching sides to give the first one a rest. “Be that way, _mi diosa_ , but we shall have words later.”

And he was off again.

Green and brown and gold flashes swam in and out of his view, barely registering as solid shapes. Settling into a distance-devouring lope, the initial adrenaline having worn off, Zevran conserved his strength. Who knew if he would run into any of the forests' denizens? And then he would need enough strength to outpace them, to dash past as fast as his fleet feet could carry him and Lahar.

He splashed through a shallow stream, river rocks a slippery footing, so much so that in his haste he almost fell, and he did lose his hold on Lahar. She landed in the water, and Zevran cursed darkly, wishing he had taken the time to tie her to his back like a bizarre pack. No, his only thought had been to get her to a healer, nevermind that this small delay was only moments, it still cost valuable _time_.

He didn't know if he had time.

Upon reaching the scouts’ patrol area past midday the next day, Zevran sped up, not heeding the call that was shouted to him. The scout broke from his hiding place, matching the Antivan's pace, taking in the scene of Zevran carrying Lahar as he was. Nothing was said, but the scout let loose a hawk’s cry, probably a call for assistance. At least, that's what it had been in Arainai's tribe. They weren't near the camp yet, not enough so that Zevran would be willing to slow, even though fatigue was making his muscles tremble and shake, and his body was drenched in sweat. Two more scouts appeared shortly, flanking and guarding him and his burden, before the first one sped up, leaving them behind to alert the camp.

They broke through the brush that surrounded the Dalish encampment, Lanaya, Wynne and Morrigan waiting.

“What happened?” the Dalish woman was asking in a no-nonsense tone of voice, reaching for Lahar.

“Zevran...” Wynne started.

“Lahar!” The last word from Morrigan, who beat the other two to helping Zevran to lay the young mage on the ground with uncharacteristic gentleness. “Is she...?”

Bent double, hands on knees, Zevran shook his head. “No. Alive. Collapsed.” He pointed behind him vaguely, gasping. “Not poison. Not curse. Grabbed head. No warning. Others following. Early morning, yesterday.”

Wynne's face was white with shock. “You ran the whole way here?”

He crumpled to the ground in a poorly controlled fall. “ _Si_.” His under-tunic was plastered to him, the leather of his battle kilt gummy with sweat. He waved off the concerned hand Leliana offered him when she appeared because of the commotion. “Am. Fine. Merely. Tired.”

XXX

_He had thought the dreams wouldn't return. Zevran was in the Fade, and Crow was there, waiting, and he did not seem happy. Well, neither was Zevran, so that made two of them._

_“I wish I could say it was good to see you, Crow,” as he bared his teeth in a grimace._

_“I told you I would bring you back here.” The words were conversational, but the Fade spirit's tone was hard. “Did you think you could get away?”_

_He braced for an attack, ready to launch an attack himself, as it was. “Call me an optimist.”_

_“I would call you an idiot, actually,” he replied, seeming to swell as he approached Zevran._

_Their surroundings were different: no monastery, no orchards in the distance, no scent of fruit on wind. In fact, the entire place was blank, a universal burnt beige. Void and unwelcoming._

_“And you would not be the first,” he said, circling to the left, wary, as Crow moved with him. “Nor the last.”_

_“No, certainly not the last,” agreeing, Crow nodded. “At least, not yet.”_

_Zevran’s lips twitched in a mirthless smile, “So, are you here to spar with words and call me childish names, Crow, or are you going to finally attack me?”_

_With this, Crow's steadily increasing presence and size diminished. “No. Both would be wastes of time.”_

_Feinting to the right, Zevran lunged, “I have no such worries!”_

_They grappled, broke apart, and both resumed circling. Like a wolf, Zevran was crouching as he moved, keeping his muscles coiled, ready to spring at the first opening he saw. He was sick of the game Crow played and had no wish to continue it. Crow lashed out with a high kick, which Zevran caught between crossed wrists, hands shifting to lock around the spirit's ankle and twist it sharply, forcing Crow to follow the motion. Momentum carried them both to the side, swaying, as though they were dancing._

_“You may be an idiot, but I didn't think you such a fool,” Crow snapped, falling back on his hands in a back bend that he turned into a flip, landing on his feet like a cat. “We have things to talk about.”_

_Zevran nimbly danced aside when Crow threw a punch, attempting to pull him back into a grapple. “I have nothing to say to you. I am tired of your games, tired of these dreams and tired of you.”_

_Crow shrugged. “You have no choice in the matter, Zevran Arainai, but fight me if you must to work out your aggression.”_

_“Shut up!” Snarling, Zevran went silent himself, delivering a flurry of blows._

_Most of them were dodged, but Crow was only avoiding him now, letting Zevran vent the pent up energy that coiled in his body. There were no retaliating strikes, and enough of his blows hit their mark to give the elf some satisfaction, but no more than that. Spent faster than he would have ever imagined, Zevran glowered and let his body slip into a ready stance, making no further attacks, having long since known that they were futile, beyond the pleasure of lashing out._

_“Done so quickly?” Mocking, Crow crossed his arms. “Are you **tired,** boy?”_

_As suddenly as that, Zevran was sent back to memory._

_…._

_“Are you **tired,** boy?” A hand lashed out, cuffing him on the temple._

_His mouth was full of blood, but Zevran knew better than to spit it out. It would be a sign of weakness, so he swallowed its coppery thick taste. And he had already shown more than enough weakness, swaying on his feet, battered and bruised as he was, having gone days without sleep before having been sent into this series of sparring matches. At thirteen, he was already broadening, out-massing the other elven trainees, but that spared him nothing. The partners he was paired with were almost always human, heavy in shoulder, barrel-chested, and long-armed, as was customary for their species. Zevran took it as a point of pride that the Master and trainers set him up against such large opponents, knowing it meant they believed he could take it._

_The other option – that they were **purposely** trying extra hard to kill him, rather than train him – didn't bear thinking about._

_No, the half-Dalish elf had long since decided that the extra work that they gave him was because he held so much promise. If they had wanted him dead, they would have simply saved time and killed him outright. It was not the way of the Crows to dance about when there were more expedient methods of solving problems. Subterfuge was for other, far more important matters than dealing with a troublesome trainee._

_Drawing himself up, Zevran dipped a small bow. “No, **Maestro** Soloise.”_

_“No? Then, you're up for another match.” Snapping his fingers, the salt-and-pepper haired, craggy-faced man gestured. “Taliesen will be your next opponent.”_

_A flicker of doubt dashed through his mind; Taliesen was his friend – as much as any Crow or trainee could be. He was a protector and guide, of sorts, and two years Zevran's senior. Also, Zevran had always thought **this** particular young man to be handsome, almost as much as himself. Of course, if the instructors had known about the regard Zevran held for the older boy, and they probably did, that would mean that this was yet another test._

_Refusing to fail it, Zevran held his daggers up, pushing his worn body to readiness. “Yes, **Maestro**.”_

_His friend and psuedo-mentor spared Zevran nothing, and neither did Zevran pull his strikes. Such was the way of assassins. Nonetheless, the smaller, already tired and beaten elf was the one to fall to the sand of the practice ring. Bleeding from a dozen cuts, he lay there panting, knowing that he **must** rise up and continue._

_…._

_Taliesen was beside his pallet, covering Zevran's mouth with a hand, holding up a finger to his lips, cautioning the elf to silence. Nodding his understanding, Zevran sat up, hiding his pained grimace. Together they moved through the intermediate student barracks and into a closet._

_“At this rate you'll be dead soon,” pulling out a jar and bandages, a tin of needle and thread in hand, the human was examining Zevran intently as he spoke._

_Cracking his neck, Zevran moved to take the poultice, but Taliesen held it just out of reach. “Ah, yes, and you would be so broken up over it.”_

_“It would be a pity to ruin such good looks, but you give them too much lip.” He pressed Zevran to turn, so that he could see the gash that was poorly bandaged on his back, “They're trying to break you, and you keep resisting rather than conforming to what you're supposed to be.”_

_He hissed as blunt fingers probed the wound. “Resisting? That is what they like about me. Show my strength, so that they know I will be the greatest Crow ever. That is the way of it, no?”_

_“First, you have to survive.” Shockingly cool salve was swiped over and massaged into the gash. “You shouldn't irritate them so much.”_

_Scoffing, Zevran felt the familiar sensation of needle piercing flesh, thread being dragged through the tiny holes made, skin forced to hold together. “You say this because **you** wish to be the greatest Crow. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be the son of a Crow Master who is in control of four cells.” He turned as there was another push, so that Taliesen could check the other marks on his body. “How else will I set myself apart, hmm? I am half-Dalish, son of a whore, with naught else to make me stand out from all the other slaves.”_

_“When I become a full Crow, I'll take you as an apprentice.” Taliesen finished tending to the worst of the wounds, most of which only needed a strong poultice and cleaning. Straightening, he stood a full head taller than Zevran. “And I'll make you my second when I gain my cell, and who cares if you're the son of a whore? By then it won't matter.”_

_He shook his head as he laughed. “And when **I** become a Crow first, maybe I'll take you as **my** apprentice instead.”_

_“See, that's what I mean,” he waggled a finger at Zevran. “I may like that mouth of yours, but they don't. You're not so good that they won't crush you.”_

_Cocking his head, Zevran leaned forward. “So you like my mouth, eh? Maybe I should show you what else it is good for....”_

_“Oh? It's good for more than bragging?” a flush of interest made the large brown eyes glow._

_Licking his lips, Zevran grabbed Taliesen, pushing him against a shelf. “It is good for much more than that, yes,” he purred, before pulling the other boy into a searing kiss, a hand worming into the other trainee's pants._

_…_

_“You have no right to be in my head Crow.” Zevran blinked the memories away to find Crow standing before him, hands pressed to the sides of his skull._

_Crow’s face was always a swirling thing, undefined, yet for some reason Zevran could read the expressions now, and the one he bore was rueful. “I don't think you have any say. It isn't by my choice that you went to Ferelden. Nor would I pick someone like you to be party to this Blight. You're a particularly useless bastard.”_

_“My mother was a whore, so it should stand to reason that I am a bastard,” he replied, swatting the hands away. “I could not tell you what my father was, and neither could my mother. It is rather freeing to simply embrace my nature, and so I do, but that does not mean I am useless.”_

_Snorting, Crow gave Zevran space. “From what I can see, you **are** rather useless. So far you've yet to prove your worth, as you've done a very poor job being a Crow, and now that you are amongst others who were never trained like you, you **still** do a poor job playing your part in a group.”_

_“And what do you think my part is?” Curious, finally numb to the irritation, the elf stared. “If you are so much better informed than I, perhaps you should care to enlighten me.”_

_Now Crow chuckled. “No, I think not. That is for you to find out on your own. You can lead a horse to water, but can't force it to drink, after all.”_

XXX

Zevran grimly buckled his armor, back to the _aravel_ that held Lahar's comatose body. He needed to be doing something. Once Wynne had assured him that Lahar hadn't been poisoned, that what ailed her wasn't something physical, but something in her spirit, Zevran became too restless to be of any use. So, he had intended to go meet Alistair and the Sten, who had put themselves to a forced march and had arrived at midnight the same day he returned to the Dalish camp.

Amongst the group had been very little arguing as to their next course of action. The werewolves still had to be dealt with, and since there wasn't anything that they could do for Lahar other than what had already been done, they all agreed to find Witherfang. Leliana would guard Lahar and Wynne, while Morrigan took the youngest Warden's place as their caster. There was a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless, that the curse the Dalish were under had something to do with Lahar's illness, but Zevran was remained unconvinced.

Nevertheless, he needed action to distract him from the unfamiliar sick feeling in his stomach.

“You say she wasn't bitten,” Zathrian was patronizing. “But she may have healed herself to hide the wound. Now, it's imperative that you find Witherfang, or she will be taken by the curse.”

Not deigning to answer, Zevran waved at Alistair, the Sten and Morrigan. “Ready?”

“The sooner we do this, the sooner it's over,” Alistair replied. The warrior was tossing concerned glances towards the _aravel_ , but was calm, hands steady, all business.

As one, they set out, all ignoring Zathrian, who was making noises about Witherfang, and that they must cut out the beast's heart and soon. _Frankly I am more tempted to cut **his** heart out, but, alas, he may be able to do something with Witherfang's heart to affect a positive outcome for Lahar, if it holds as much power as he says it does._

XXX

“As I thought.” Staring at the forest spirit, Lady, Zevran stood beside Alistair. “This curse is Zathrian is doing.”

“Zevran...” A metal-encased hand waved, encompassing the Lady and her werewolves. “...can we...justify doing what the Keeper wants?”

Morrigan snorted, leaning on her staff. “Why not just turn against the Dalish? It would serve them right.”

Shaking his head, Zevran agreed in theory, but saw it as unwise, never mind the distant kinship he held with them. “No. They have Lahar, Wynne and Leliana. Any attack made against the tribe will result in swift retribution. Besides, there are children there.”

“The Keeper, we shall seek him,” the Sten rumbled, giving voice to his opinion, the first time he had spoken since handing Zevran the waterskins three days ago.

“And do what?” Alistair faced the Qun’ari, jabbing a finger towards the Lady, who held her peace. “Tell him 'Hey, we hear you're a blood mage, and you're the reason the werewolves are around, so do you think you could please just die already and free everyone from their curse?' Yeah. I don't see that going so well.”

Sharing a look with Morrigan, Zevran cupped his chin in thought. “There are many methods of persuasion, Alistair. We shall utilize them as necessity dictates.”

“What? What, you mean – torture?” Accusing, Alistair spun to tower over Zevran forcing the elf to straighten from his typical, height masking slouch so he could look at him. “You mean torture don't you? And you don't think that's _wrong_ at all, do you?”

“And what would you suggest, you senseless oaf? A gift of chocolates and flowers?” acerbic as always, Morrigan's voice could cut glass. “The elf is right, he will do what is needed, as will I. I'm not without my own methods of persuasion.”

“I only wish for you to speak with Zathrian, convince him to talk to us,” Lady finally added. Her finger-roots twined as she shifted in place, her loam-green-black hair moving as if in a breeze. “We have sent so many messages to him, begging him to listen, to heed our plight, and he has done nothing. So we attacked, to force him to listen.”

Signaling to Morrigan, he turned toward the warriors. “We are the fastest. Sten, Alistair – remain here. If we are not back in two days, do what you must.”

“Oh no, no, you're not in charge.” The almost-Templar squared his shoulders. “We'll all go. I don't trust either of you to not do something stupid and particularly _eee-vil_.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Zevran pulled the _shemlen_ aside. “You will be in the way. Surely you can understand this?”

“No.” Shaking his head in the negative, the generally blundering idiot showed more brains than the elf was used to. “I've got Templar skills. I can power-blast him and prevent him from casting, and Sten can haul him along like a naughty child by his pointy ears.”

Grinning at the suggestion, Zevran clapped him on the shoulder. “Ah, you are not as stupid as I thought you. Perhaps there is hope for you yet.”

Holding a hand up, thumb and forefinger showing a small distance between them, Alistair smirked. “Just a smidge of hope. But don't think this means I approve of your methods.”

“Oh no, we would not want that,” rolling his eyes, Zevran jerked his head, urging the others to follow.

Strangely enough, they did.

XXX

 _Such motivations men like him bear within their dark hearts,_ Zevran thought, noting the casual way the Keeper examined the corpses around him on the first floor of the ruins. _Immortality, blood, power. Cowardice. The avarice of claiming what is not fairly won by them, no matter the price to others._ The others fanned out into a half circle, relaxed in their bearing.

“You knew of this place.” Alistair spoke first, sounding more man than boy. “That would have cut a good chunk out of our travel-time down, if you'd only told us.”

The Dalish Keeper shrugged, the sharp cast of his features hard and disdainful. “And what of it? You are a Grey Warden and were well prepared. I knew you would reach these ruins.” That flash of greed welled in the eyes, impatience showing in each minute movement. “And do you have Witherfang's heart?”

“'Tis a most curious thing.” Cocking her hip suggestively, Morrigan gestured with her staff. “These beasts speak. They reason. 'Twould seem passing strange that you made no mention of it.” There was sulfur and brimstone in the air, a perfume Zevran was sure meant she was drawing on her magic, ready to make mischief as needed. “And these so-called ‘beasts’, they tell an interesting tale.”

“Make no mistake. They may speak, but they are animals!” The conviction was unshaken in Zathrian, but Zevran supposed in someone who was more than four centuries old, that hate was all that ran in his veins. “And what lies have they told?”

“Alas, far fewer than you.” Zevran almost drew his weapons, but made himself wait, choosing not to escalate the situation until necessary. “In fact, I think it would be a pity if you do not do the honour of speaking with them, as they have been requesting for some time...since you are here, already. Do you not agree, hmm?”

Features twisted, Zathrian drew himself to his inconsiderable height. “And what makes you think you can tell me what to do?”

Zevran allowed a hard smile to curl his lips, eyes going sharp and dead in that flat stare all Crows were trained in. “Ah, you show your colours? See, good Alistair here is Templar trained. You do know what a Templar can do, yes?” The Keeper's eyes widened in surprise, clearly having never guessed that Alistair had anything other than the strength of his arm to call upon, and Zevran carried on without mercy. “I see that you do. I bear skills that have broken many. I am able to inflict pains that you cannot imagine, so sheltered you are. As for Morrigan, she has enough healing magic to ensure that you survive everything I do to you.” His teeth bared as his lips pulled further back on his face. “Not to forget our fine, strapping Qun’ari friend, who is large enough to carry whatever is left of you to the Lady if you do not cooperate.”

“You _do_ realize that the Lady is Witherfang?” Zevran knew a weak stall when he saw one, and Zathrian's question was a very weak bid for more time.

He nodded, crossing his arms, while flicking his hand in dismissal. “Of course. It is obvious. Alas, it seems to be that you have a tendency to underestimate those around you. Now, shall we begin with your hands, or your feet?”

Slamming the tip of his staff down, Zathrian snapped, “Fine! I will speak with these creatures!”

Then again, they had left him no choice but to give in. They essentially herded the Keeper back to the werewolves' lair, taking the shortcut that had been created by the open door to the lower level. _I shall have to see about gaining ingredients for magebane._ Staring at the Keeper's back as Zathrian descended the stairs, going first, Zevran ran the tips of his fingers along the inner line of his baldric, trying to choose what poison he would use if – _when_ – it was needed. He wasn't entirely sure of which side they would choose, but knew well that the werewolves were the ones being wronged, so he was sure that Lahar would have sided with the lycanthropes over the Dalish. That, and Zathrian made all sorts of alarms go off in Zevran's mind, every instinct telling him that the Keeper was no good at all and that even if they had brought Witherfang's heart, the Keeper would go back on his word.

Probably even order the clan to attack the party, justifying it as righteousness.

They attained the Lady's chamber where she held court with the werewolves, Switfrunner to her left and the Gatekeeper at her right. When the cursed creatures saw Zathrian striding along as though he owned the place, they howled. At a calming gesture from the Lady, they quieted, plunging the chamber into eerie silence. No sounds came, not even breathing, the entire ruins silent as the grave.

“So, spirit.” Breaking the silence, Zathrian's voice was all hissing and slithering things given speech. “I hear you wish to speak with me.”

Swiftrunner snarled, “You will address her as the Lady!”

“Peace, Swiftrunner.” Reaching out she lay a hand on a great hairy forearm. “Zathrian, you've come, finally.” Zevran almost thought he heard a hint of a scorned lover's hate in her words. “I hadn't expected you to arrive so soon.”

The Keeper glowered. “So, you've taken a name, spirit, and given these... _creatures_ names, as well. If this is what you wished to speak with me about, then I find myself unimpressed still. Call off your dogs,” he sneered, tossing a derisive stare at Zevran and the others, “and let me be on my way.”

“I have given no name to Swiftrunner and the others, they are names they chose for themselves, and it is they who named me, Zathrian, bringing me back from madness.” Her full lips were pursed, eyes narrowed. “A madness that you caused for what, at the time, were good reasons. But have not we all suffered long enough?”

“No!” Any sense of composure was broken as the Keeper shouted. “No – my retribution is boundless for what they...” he cut the air with an angry thrust of his arm, “did to my children! To my beautiful Llyaomyina, to my small son...Einir. They shall pay for all time!”

Zevran slipped up behind the Keeper, having pulled a small poniard from its sheath under his battle skirt, allowing the tip to press into the small of Zathrian's back. “Have you no other reasons? Vengeance is good money for such as I. However, to my way of thinking, there is more, yes?” He pushed the dagger's tip a little more into the Dalish's back. “Your life it is tied to this...curse according to the Lady. I wonder, what would happen if my grip were to slip on the pommel of this blade and it were to _plunge_ into such soft tender flesh? Perhaps the curse would end, no? ”

Zathrian snarled, face twisting as much as a werewolf's in barely suppressed rage. “You dare!”

“Please, we are here to speak, not to attack,” Lady urged them both, her face pleading, an expression that, for a moment, made Zevran think of Lahar. “Nothing is gained by further violence. We have made our point. Zathrian is here, and now I only wish to make my case, to beg for freedom.”

Zevran inclined his head. “That may be so. However, I still believe there are other reasons.” Laying a hand on Zathrian's shoulder, he forced the Keeper to remain still and granted himself better leverage for a kidney blow. “Think of this as an assurance that he shall listen to you.”

“Only I know the final steps of the ritual, and I'll never finish it.” Every line shouted smugness, and a disregard for the blade Zevran held to him. “Kill me, and there will never be a chance for the curse to be lifted, and Lanaya will kill those back at the camp.”

Behind him, the Sten growled, and Alistair swore vehemently, using language that Zevran had never believed the young man knew. Zathrian's threat had hit home with the group, and Zevran only narrowly resisted the desire to wrap his arm around the Dalish's neck so he could bury his blade in Zathrian's kidney. Thinking quickly, Zevran kicked the Keeper's staff from his grasp and locked his hand over the mage's mouth.

Forcing the taller man to bend backwards so he could speak directly into the Dalish elf's ear, he hissed, “I do not have to _kill_ you, I merely have to _convince_ you that you should finish the ritual. This could be a civil conversation or an uncivil one. Your decision,” not yet ready to release Zathrian's mouth, Zevran put as much menace into his voice as possible. “Now, to my way of thinking, it appears you cling to this curse not for justice, but for some other desire, about which I am not entirely sure. Your tribe has been decimated by the werewolves in their desire to force you to listen to reason, but you ignore them and their pleas, not because you desire to continue punishing them, but for something else.” Now he removed his hand, but maintained his firm hold on the Keeper. “Now, speak civilly and change my mind on this, and I might not cut your non-vital organs out one by one.”

“His life is tied to the curse.” The Lady spoke before Zathrian could say anything. “The ritual he used required blood, and as long as the curse lives on, so does he.”

“That isn't why! The punishment your beasts bear should be never-ending!” Shaking in rage, the Keeper bore an uncanny resemblance to Swiftrunner and his compatriots. “They will suffer and feel the anguish I live with each day.”

Incredulous, Alistair's voice was soft, but bore a weight of shock and a complete inability to understand such unreasoning enmity. “Are you so filled with hate that you will willingly sacrifice those you're supposed to guide and protect? After so long, you’re willing to do the very same to your people that was done to your children?” The Templar-trained warrior moved closer, stepping into the Keeper's field of vision, expression grave. “You’re supposed to be a leader. A protector. How can you cast it aside for this?” he asked, gesturing at the werewolves. “Is hate the only thing you exist for? What purpose does it have?”

“Hate is a lonely bedfellow,” Zevran sighed, speaking from experience. _Best not think on that,_ he thought, grimacing. “And is always hungry for more to join it, a hunger that never slacks, is never satisfied. It drags everything it touches down into its depths, refusing to release anything it has captured.” Stepping away from the Keeper, he shook his head. “Dress it up as you like, Zathrian, but your hate only defiles that which you are supposed to hold above all others.”

“You are _fools_! You know nothing!” The words summoned a great upwelling of blood-stench, the Keeper drawing from magical reserves.

Just as he was lunging forward to recapture the mage, Zevran was dragged back, caught mid-motion as a large root wrapped around his waist. The world skewed crazily as he was shaken back and forth, struggling to hang onto his sword and dagger. Lashing out, the Antivan laughed as the edge bit into wood. Splinters flew, the sharp tang of sap filling his nose. A flash of blue was Alistair sucking the magic from Zathrian, Templar training coming to the fore. The crazed and controlled sylvan dropped Zevran, heading towards Alistair who was raising his fist high, ready to throw a holy smite on the Dalish. Flame engulfed the sylvan, Morrigan's doing, while Zevran regained his feet, diving for Zathrian.

Tackling the lighter elf to the ground, Zevran caught a swimming image of the Sten hacking at another sylvan as though he were a lumberjack felling a tree, even as Zevran pinned the Keeper's arms up like pigeon wings. Burying a knee into Zathrian's back, he snaked one hand around to the Dalish's mouth, covering it, so the mage could no longer cast. Around him the mobilized trees were made into so much kindling, and Alistair was holding a mana-draining field around the two elves.

“That was most unwise of you.” He pulled Zathrian's head back by cupping his jaw, the position straining the mage's throat.

A muffled grunt and thrashing legs as he sought to dislodge Zevran was all the reply given.

The Lady approached and knelt in front of Zathrian. “Why must everyone suffer, when those you sought to punish are dead and gone?”

Zevran allowed his grip to loosen enough so that the Keeper could speak. “They should know my pain.”

“And many do know your pain, Zathrian. Yet, do you truly wish to become that which you hate so much?” Her voice sorrowful, pleading. “Must everyone, so many of whom are innocent, bear the same scars you do? Have you no room in your heart for mercy?”

“How can you speak of mercy, when you are as savage as any, holding within you the same paradox of beauty and rage?” The Keeper wasn't struggling, having gone limp with some sort of defeat.

“We all must struggle with our bestial natures.” Finger-roots caressed the bald dome of the elf's head. “It is what we do with it that which makes us who we are. It is our ability to forgive and to let go of the pain that defines the virtue of our being.”

Zevran could sense that some inner battle had been lost as Zathrian sighed. “Your ability to forgive makes a mockery of my desire for vengeance.”

“I assure you, it is not intended to be that way, Zathrian.” The Lady laid a hand on Zevran's shoulder, urging him to release the Keeper, whose head she drew into her lap. “Please, Zathrian, I beg of you – _we_ beg of you – free us.”

“Is this truly your desire? Both of our lives are tied to it. You will cease to be if I complete it.” Zevran thought he saw a shadow of the man who had loved his children so much that he had been willing to become a monster in Zathrian's face.

She smiled down at him. “You are my maker. You gave me life and a body. I have known joy, as I have known pain. I have known hate, as I have known forgiveness. All of that is enough. I have lived long and long in this way. It is time for us to let go of this mortal flesh.”

“You humble me.” Zathrian rose with the spirit's help, bowing his head to her. “I shall do as you ask. I am...ashamed, when faced by you and yours.”

“There is no shame in your reasons for doling out punishment.” The Lady was soothing him, stroking her roots tenderly over the expanse of tattooed skin. “And any shame you had will be forgotten, once you release your hate fully.”

Zevran felt a hush fall over the chamber, for all knew that the fight had been truly won. The curse would be released, the werewolves freed, the Dalish hunters allowed to regain themselves and rejoin their people, at the cost of Zathrian’s and the Lady's lives. But it was a cost that everyone had known, and it was a price that was paid freely.

“Morrigan, stall them. I must get to the camp. Give me as much time as you can. Do not stop them – just stall them.” Not waiting to see what happened, Zevran grabbed Morrigan's attention. “Now, put a rejuvenation spell on me, as well as something to increase my speed, if you know of such.”

Morrigan nodded her agreement and went through gestures, along with a twisting set of sounds that were nowhere as fluid as the language Lahar used. A rush of strength filled him, swelling Zevran up to impossible heights. He had never felt so good without drugs being involved. Dipping a quick bow of thanks, Zevran swiftly fled the chamber, knowing two things: Zathrian would die in there, breaking the curse, and somehow Lanaya would know – and the Dalish would exact vengeance unjustly.

The trek through the forest went faster than the last – he wasn't burdened by Lahar's weight, and now he was flying high on the glyphs the Wild Witch had put on him. He estimated that on their first go through the forest to the ruins, they had only managed to travel ten miles a day for three days. There had been too many fights to slow them down, but now the way was clear, and so Zevran ran, fighting the urge to go full out, knowing he had to conserve strength for when he got to the Dalish. Hopefully, the Dalish wouldn't attack immediately, or perhaps there would be some sort of further delay in Lanaya knowing that Zathrian was dead.

Time was of the essence, but so was the need to retain his energy for an upcoming fight.

The light traveled, changing direction as the sun moved high in the unseen sky. Zevran barely noticed it, some internal timer telling him that he was close to the camp, and that he had been running for going on two hours. But then it was there, the markers for the camp's inner boundaries rising up ahead. Picking up the pace, he exploded through the underbrush, leaping over someone's campfire. Coming upon a scout who had been checking his arrows, seated calmly on a bedroll, Zevran reached out, snatching up the bow that sat beside the scout, and kept on going. There were shouts of surprise and alarm trailing him across the camp, but they were not important.

Getting to the _aravel_ was.

Blowing straight through the camp, Zevran reached his and Lahar's _aravel_. Leliana was rising, surprise on her face, a question forming on her lips. Zevran said nothing, bending down and grabbing her bundle of arrows, then leapt the steps to _aravel_. Kicking the door open, he saw Wynne startle, a rare curse coming from her. Seeing that Lahar was still in the bed unharmed for now, Zevran turned, swinging the bow down and into the ready position, nocking an arrow and drawing it halfway. Falling to a squat at the short railing, he waited. It didn't take long for the Dalish to gather, Lanaya at their head.

“What is the meaning of this?” She waved a hand, encompassing the camp and his ready stance.

Feathers at his cheek, the bow creaking as he drew it all the way, he aimed right at the default Keeper, saying what no tribe would ever want to hear, knowing that by now his words would be true. “The Keeper is dead.”

Gasps of shock rippled outwards through the crowd. Shouts of 'kill the _shems_ ', 'death to betrayers' and ' _elvehn'alas_ '. It was the latter one that made the Antivan wince internally. He had been called that frequently in Antiva by Arainai's clan if they had seen him after being reclaimed by the Guild. Tamping that ugly memory down, he waited as Lanaya waved everyone to silence.

Leliana had armed herself as well, positioning herself to the side, so she could lay down a suppressive line of fire. Wynne was standing at his back in the narrow doorway to the landship, the lavender of her magic a heavy smell that hung in the air. Ser Prize was crouched, ready to leap, growling at the foot of the stairs. All four of them were ready to attack at the least hostile motion from the crowd, but Lanaya's sheer force of will was holding back the clan.

“And did you kill him after having shared the hospitality of the clan?” her face impassive.

“No, he chose his path.” He held steady by dint of will, the glyph the Wilds Witch cast upon him seeping away like blood from a deep wound. “He freed the werewolves from the curse. Look to your hunters, see that it is true.”

Lanaya nodded at the crowd, and several broke away, heading towards the camp healer's tent. One of the dispatched elves returned, shaking his head. His look boded ill. Zevran tensed, the bowstring creaking quietly beside his ear as he pulled it just a hair further ready to release the shaft.

Lanaya frowned at the elf. “And? What news, Uriemen?”

The brunette's face twisted into a grimace. “Healer Kaurthra says that their pains have eased, their transformations halted. Improvement may or may not come later. However, she says the curse's progress has been halted in its tracks.”

The flaxen-haired mage shook her head. “I had thought I felt his passing, but I could not be sure.” Raising her voice, she said, “If it is as you say, then it is well. We shall await the arrival of Zathrian’s body to take any action.” She leveled a steady gaze at him, ignoring the fact that he had not once wavered in holding her in his sights. “I trust that your companions would know to show at least that much respect?”

“They should. I see no reason why they would not,” he replied cautiously, hoping that at least over-sensitive Alistair would have that much sense. The Sten would show no respect for one he felt was honourless, and Morrigan disdained everyone but Lahar. That only left Alistair to depend upon, whose common sense could fill a thimble, by Zevran's estimation. However, the _shemlen_ warrior was faithful and loyal, a regular do-gooder, probably raised up on stories of heroes and wishing nothing more than to join such august ranks. _He_ , at the least, would feel that duty dictated bringing back Zathrian's corpse.

Or so Zevran prayed.

Lanaya turned to the gathered Dalish. “Return to your activities, my people. We will await further news.” There were grumbles, but she cut them off. “Enough. We are Dalish. We will not violate guesting laws, so until there is clear proof otherwise, we shall not raise hands against our guests. It is our duty to see to it that we keep our honour untouched.”

Zevran watched as the clanspeople dispersed, many of them throwing hateful looks towards the _aravel_ and particularly at him. His mouth was pressed to a thin, stubborn line, and even yet he refused to ease his stance, maintaining his vigilance. Not until everyone but Lanaya had left did he even let his body relax at all.

Rising from his crouch slowly, knees and shoulders protesting their abuse, he addressed her. “ _Lethallan_ , you have questions, do you not?”

“They can wait. I merely wished to ensure that no one acted brashly and escalated the situation to full violence,” she was curt, dismissive. “I shall stay here in your end of camp until the others return.”

Surprised – _She offers herself up knowingly as hostage?_ – Zevran frowned. “That may not be wise, young one.”

One side of her lips quirked. “'Young one'? And how old are you to say that to me, flat ear?”

“Old enough.” He unstrung the bow so that it would not strain and warp. “Old enough to know that if they perceive a threat to the only Keeper they have left, they may act with swift violence, brash and illogical. It is the nature of desperate people.”

The combined weight of three women's heavy gazes measuring him, weighing him carefully, was uncomfortable. Rarely had the Antivan been looked at like this. Usually, there was fear or lust or disdain in the gazes of others when they landed on him. Now there was a speculative gleam in each eye. Leliana – that was easy, Zevran could see the recognition. _Ah, so you begin to reveal yourself?_ Lanaya hid a hint of respect, a touch of avarice as well, and a hefty dose of hope, sitting side-by-side. _And what games do **you** play at **da'len**? Such a hopeful gaze, it borders on worship._ Wynne was predictable. It would be too much to hope for the heavy, silent disapproval to ease up. _Old bitch, I do not see **you** doing anything to win us free of this! Keep your condescending looks to yourself._

“What you say does have some merit,” Lanaya conceded, nodding. “But there must be some way to ensure my clan’s caution.”

Rubbing the side of his nose, he suggested, “Children.”

Behind him, Wynne gasped, “You'll do no such thing.”

He turned to face her. “And do you have a suggestion? Some way to deter a lynch mob coming for us? No?”

“Holding children hostage – it is unconscionable,” the older mage snapped, hands going to hips. “They are defenseless!”

He growled in exasperation. “We would do nothing to them! They would simply play at this end of the camp and have their bedrolls here if the others take their time getting here!”

Leliana spoke up, something she rarely did. “Wynne, we would not hurt them, you know this. Even if we were attacked. Isn't that right Zevran?”

“If attacked, I cannot guarantee a lack of collateral damage,” the Antivan warned, frowning, “But it would not be at my hand.”

Lanaya agreed with him. “The children of the tribe are important, mage. Important enough to give my people pause.”

“But not important enough to drive them to action.” Reiterating, Zevran held Wynne's eyes, using every bit of force he could muster in the look. “Lanaya is their keeper of all lore, a mage, and one who holds the legacy of Arlathan. A Keeper is the clan's soul, and any perceived threat – real or imagined – to a Keeper is met with swift violence.”

“I must voice my disagreement,” the tall, willowy _shemlen_ stated firmly. “But I am out-voted. And Leliana – I expected better of you.”

Lanaya scowled. “It is not your decision to make. It never was. I am the acting Keeper until Zathrian has been put to ground. What I say goes in this place, and you are guests. Your protection and safety are as much my burden as my clan's.”

Zevran felt a thrill of gratification at the way Wynne flinched. With Lahar not in the land of the aware and awake, there were none that the old woman listened to unless the others disagreed with her. So, seeing the mage put in her place was satisfying in the extreme.

“I have said my piece,” she replied, shaking her head in disapproval. “If I go to the Maker, I can tell Him honestly that I have done my best.”

XXX

Mi cielo - my sky (my sweet, in implication)

Mi diosa - my goddess

si - yes

elvehn'alas - dirt elf

lethallan - friend/cousin - female

da’len - little one


	10. Chapter 10

Murder 9  
XXX

Little Atathis had come to visit again, begging coin tricks. “Again? _Da'len,_ you have exhausted all the things I can teach you!” _Well, not **all** the things I could teach you. However, those are not fit instruction for little Dalish boys,_ he thought, ruffling the child's hair as the small boy tugged at his shirtsleeve.

“But, _lethallin_ , I want to be like you,” said all in a rush.

Falling to a squat before the boy, Zevran grabbed his pointed chin. “Ah, you do not wish to be like me. I am too flat-ear. I have forgotten the ways of our people, for the most part. You are meant to be a strong warrior for the people, guiding and guarding them.”

Eyes were staring at him, but Zevran disregarded them. _Let them look_ , was his motto. If Alistair and Wynne kept it up, the Crow hoped that their eyes might melt in their skulls. Disbelief and shock were wonderful things. Not only that, but it kept them uncertain, too busy contemplating whatever nefarious thing he may, or may not, do, leaving little actual time for them to find ways to bother him.

Zathrian was two days in the ground, and Lahar was eight days in a coma. True to Lanaya's word, the clan had left them alone, the children having remained as insurance for the tribe’s good behavior. Now that the old, corrupt Keeper was buried and the hunters were easing out of their own curse-induced comas, the clan had finally shown some respect to Zevran and the others. They had been given permission to stay with the clan until Lahar was well and ready to travel. Towards this end, Wynne had several times stated with firm conviction that Lahar was simply working something out in the Fade and would wake up at any minute.

The Crow's smile was easy on the surface, but he knew it didn't quite reach his eyes as he pulled out a small throwing dagger, showing it to Atathis. “Well, I suppose I could show you _something_ other than tricks, to make your hands clever.” 

His nights had been haunted by memories; they assailed him with a viciousness that would not relent, and no matter how much Wynne said Lahar would awaken, Zevran was...concerned. The young mage was his lifeline, his one shot at freedom. If she didn't awaken, the consequences for his rebellion against and failure to the Guild didn't bear thinking about.

For many minutes, the bronze elf showed the tiny little Dalish boy how to hold the throwing knife in his hands, correcting and re-correcting the grip until it was perfect.

Leaning down so he was right behind Atathis, he pointed. “See that stump?”

“Uh-huh!” the boy nodded vigorously. 

“Alright.” Wrapping his fingers carefully around the boys' hand, he said, “We are going to try and hit that. Do you think you are ready to try?”

Before he could gain the expected affirmative, Leliana went past, carrying two bowls to the _aravel_ where Lahar lay. Pausing, Zevran frowned. Eight days of nothing but bowls of water and broth. That was all Lahar had been given. 

He laid a hand atop Atathis' head. “ _Da'len,_ I have a request of you. I need your help with something.”

XXX

Children were the best source of information anywhere. Them, and slaves or servants. People often forgot to hold their tongues in front of such audiences, and so with the right words or bribes, information was there for the taking. To that effect, Atathis had been a veritable font of good information.

For instance, the child had told him where he could get the long leather tube that was in his hands and the bowl of mashed halla cheese, soaked in milk. Beside him, Atathis squirmed on the bed, balancing the bowl of food in his lap. Lahar was sunken, proof of the energies that burnt through her with each spell etched into the hollows of her cheeks. Coupled as it was with no food beyond broth and water, the young woman was wasting away far too rapidly.

Leaning down, Zevran pried her mouth open, tilting her head back so her throat stretched, carefully examining the back of her mouth. With gentle, sure and experienced fingers the Antivan probed, watching as the flap of fleshy cartilage wiggled in the back. Satisfied that he would be able to successfully insert the leather hose, the Crow eased the tip of it into the tube that ran from mouth to stomach. In reaction, Lahar's body jerked once, and Zevran quickly scooted to the head of the bed, locking her head in place between his knees. Pausing in his work, he listened, _Good airflow still, **perfecto, preciosa** you are doing well, just a little bit more... Just like so..._

With the hose in place, he snagged the funnel he had fashioned and rested it on the part of the hose that stuck out of her mouth. “Atathis, I need you to go very slow and pour some of the food into here.”

Eyes huge, the little boy nodded, licking nervous lips. “It won't hurt her, will it, _lethallin_? I won't get in trouble, will I?”

“No, _da'mi_ , I give you permission to help me in this, so no one will fault you for doing as I say. No, she needs to eat. True, if she were awake, this would cause her discomfort,” holding the tube and funnel steady. “But she needs this or she will be very sick, _da'mi_. Far more than if we do this.”

Atathis swallowed audibly, doing as he was instructed. _Good boy, this is a skill that is always useful. Knowing when to listen. It could save your life, or another’s. This is a skill I can teach you that is far more important than nimble fingers._ Keeping one eye on his Warden, the other on the little Dalish as food seeped into Lahar, giving her a fighting chance, his ears pricked.

Someone – _Wynne from the tread. Augh, **puta,** can you not leave well enough alone?_ – was mounting the drop-down stairs of the _aravel_. 

Ignoring that for the moment as unimportant, he gave Atathis an encouraging smile. “I will have to do this several times a day, _da'mi_.”

A look of very serious concentration was on the boy's face. “May I help?”

“So long as you have no other tasks to complete,” he assented, nodding. “Have you been listening to _El'dirthera_ Sarel?”

Atathis stopped pouring. “I don't know that word. We just call him _Hahren_ Sarel. What's it mean?”

Before Zevran could answer, Wynne entered, gasping in horror. “In the name of the Maker, _what are you doing_ Zevran?!” The mage moved quickly, a spell forming. “You stop this at once!”

“No.” Firm and unflinching, he stared the Circle mage down. “Lahar needs food. She will have nothing left if she continues on this way!”

Atathis was frightened, pulling the bowl of milk and mashed cheese to him and curling protectively into a ball. That made the Antivan inordinately enraged. He was but a child and terrified by Wynne's stern countenance.

“We have been feeding her,” she snapped. Pointing imperiously at Atathis, she declared, “I don't know what that man has told you child, but what he is doing is _wrong_ and will hurt Lahar.”

Snarling, Zevran leaned forward, each word clipped. “Broth and water are not enough sustenance for a mage. Broth and water are not enough sustenance for _anyone_ , for more than a few days!” Setting the funnel aside carefully, he reached out, laying a soothing hand on Atathis' head, but speaking to Wynne. “The Crows, we have frequent problems with this. Either someone refuses to eat or cannot feed themselves for whatever reason, and we do this. It is effective and relatively safe! You are a fool, woman, if you cannot see that I know what I am doing!”

“Mark my words Zevran, if she suffers for this, I _will_ see you punished.” Drawing herself up, Wynne obviously had to force herself not to clench her hands in impotent anger.

“And if she dies from lack of food, _I_ will see _you_ punished, _comemierda hija de puta_!” he spat, not wanting to speak in words that Atathis would understand, but his meaning was clear to the three of them. “I will do it myself, and I am not nearly so kind as others.”

“Well, I _never_!” jaw jutting out, Wynne looked down her long nose at him. 

_Ignorant old woman, you know **nothing**. Your ignorance betrays you. Some healer you are._ Eyes narrowed, Zevran waited for the woman to break his gaze. _Ignorance kills in the real world. Pray that it does not cost us. Pray that it does not cost this whole Blighted country. Pray that I die before that happens, because you will not like the consequences otherwise._

XXX

_The platter had several small dishes on it, the firebaked clay a deep sepia, throwing back residual warmth from the ovens in the rear of the tavern. Each dish was filled with a small portion of food, one held shrimp with basil and crushed garlic, another duck liver and onions, a slice of fried potato cake with olive oil and garlic atop it, and another with tomatoes and thick sliced cheese. A basket of bread sat beside the platter and a larger dish of olives. **Ah, it is good to be home.** Zevran grinned down at the table, mouth veritably salivating at the chance to eat real food once more. **Oh, Antiva how I missed you! Llomerryn has nothing on your beauty. And, of course, your food. There is nowhere else that has cuisine so lovely and fine!**_

_Snagging a few olives, the young Crow savored the thick, rich taste, “Mm-oh. **Mierda** , Taliesen, you would not believe what I had to eat out there!”_

_Beside him his fellow Crow leaned on his elbows, drinking from his mug of wine. “If I have to hear about the abomination of what they do to rice one more time...”_

_“Tchk, fine.” He spit the olive pits out on the floor to join the others already littering it. What did he care for the masked glower of the barkeep? He was a Crow! And he would be one of the finest in all of Antiva. One day. Probably soon. “Be that way.”_

_Taliesen shifted on his short stool. “No need to be catty, Zev.” The human sighed, picking at a shrimp absentmindedly as around them the smell of coffee, pipe tobacco, cannabis, and people filled the air, along with the fitful spring breeze. “But that's all you've talked about for the last three days. Food. You would think that they had only been feeding you the slops given to the recruits.”_

_Zevran hid a small frown. Usually Taliesen was much more amused by the elf's complaints and over-the-top behavior. It was why they had always gotten along so well, but since Zevran had returned to Antiva City from that business in Llomerryn, the older of the two had been...different. There was an air of hardness to him that the elf wasn't sure he liked at all._

_“What can I do? I do not like to see rice, let alone vegetables – aie, what they do to the vegetables! – butchered so!” Watching carefully, he measured the dark-haired man. “And the yogurt for the meats? **Braska** , it is filthy-bland I say. A complete crime!”_

_“It's a wonder you don't look like a whale,” the human grunted, finishing off his wine in one long pull. “Food, always with the food. Or sex. Or drugs. Ugh, it's impossible for me to believe you survived our training.”_

_His shoulders tensed, and his tone sharpened. “Ah, yes. ‘Good-time Zevran’. Hedonist extraordinaire. No thoughts in his pretty, blond, pointy-eared head but for pleasure.” Snatching the jug of smooth red wine from Taliesen, he snarled, “You forget who I am, Tali. You forget what I have done, where I come from. You forget **yourself**. I am not the one who came from a family. I am not the one who never knew hunger until going to the intermediate barracks. You are. Is it truly a wonder that I enjoy my pleasures where I can find them?” Refilling his own cup, he fixed the human with his gaze. “Was it not you who told me that I should enjoy myself when I can, however I can?”_

_A gloved hand clamped down around his wrist, squeezing with cruel strength, but the grip was a bit off from what Zevran remembered. However, he was too distracted by Taliesen’s forcing his hand to the table, pinning it there, to examine the difference further. “Shut up, Zev, you stupid knife-ear. You think you're so knowledgeable and think that my life was so great.”_

_Zevran bared his teeth. “That is **whoreson** to you.” Jerking his hand from Talisen's hold, he snapped, “We both know who is the brains in this outfit, and it most certainly is not **you**. And we both know whose mama put forth the recommendations for their elevation.” His voice dropped to a menacing hiss, “Without me and without your mother, you would be the dead one far more often than I.”_

_“ **Lethallin!** ” The voice was clear and ringing, cutting through the noise of the tavern. Zevran spared a glance in the woman's direction, but looked away after seeing that it was just some wild Dalish in her impractical leathers. “ **Lethallin!** ”_

_Leaning in so that he was almost nose-to-nose with Taliesen, he continued, “I do not like the way you have been acting, my friend, and if it continues, I will leave you behind. Status you have or no, I care not. Call me a ‘stupid knife-ear’ again, and I will walk out, and you will be left holding the bag.”_

_“And who will watch your back? Eh?” Jaw set, the human growled. “Who will keep the other Crows from bending you over and fucking you until you burst?”_

_Any response Zevran would have formed was halted by that crazed Dalish coming too close. Stilling, Zevran began to turn to face her, to be met with a hand landing on his shoulder. Stiffening imperceptibly – he didn't like to be touched without warning – he rose, dislodging her hand from his shoulder in the motion._

_They were of a height. Zevran was not a tall man, even for their shared species, and his amber eyes met ones of a startling navy blue. “ **Lethallin**!! Why did you not answer?”_

_“I am sorry,” he responded, measuring his words carefully, “but you must have me mistaken for someone else, my good woman.”_

_She shook her head, searching his features like she was devouring them. “No, no – I am not mistaken. I know you, **da'len** , or I knew your mother, at least.”_

_He didn't know any of those fluid words she was using, but he wanted to know more, for some reason, and it served as a distraction from Taliesen and his strange behavior. However, it wouldn't do to have any sort of meaningful conversation with such a large audience. Zevran was no longer sure of how his fellow Crow would respond to such things. So much change in his friend, in less than two months of being gone from Antiva City._

_So, Zevran took the woman by the arm and pulled her towards the stairs in the back. “Well, perhaps we can get to know each other better, hmm?”_

_The Dalish woman seemed ready to protest, then looked around at the tavern and its rough occupants. “Hmm, yes, I suppose we should get better acquainted. Privately.”_

_Once in one of the small rooms reserved for customers – containing nothing more than a bed and a cracked washbasin and pitcher – Zevran turned to look at the woman. Examining her intently for only a moment, he figured she must be a mere handful of years older than him. Certainly not old enough to have known his mother. **Perhaps she merely used it as a ploy to get me in private?** Shrugging mentally, Zevran realized that this must be the case, which told him how to proceed. _

_Reaching out he curled his hand over her cheek, leaned in before she could protest and kissed her. Her wide lipped mouth opened in shock, and she flinched away, shoving at his shoulders. Releasing her, the Crow watched as the unnamed Dalish wiped her mouth in horror, as if she had somehow been **sullied** by what he had done._

_“ **Da'len**! Why would you do such a thing? I am your **aunt**!” covering her mouth, she backed away from him warily._

_**My aunt? This woman has to be crazy; she's barely more than a girl!** He frowned at her darkly. “You are practically a child, woman. You are not old enough to have known my mother, let alone be my **aunt** , my dear. Do not take me for a fool. I am a Crow, and such as myself have foolishness beaten from us early on.”_

_“Oh... **da'len**...” Large blue eyes, wide as could be, shone from skin that was almost the same shade as his, her red hair like a flaming brand. “A Crow? Myrillia would never have stood for it!”_

_Suddenly all the air whooshed out of him. No one alive remembered his mother's name, other than him. One of the whores – Jamya – had told him what little he knew of his mother, perhaps she still remembered strawberry blonde Myrillia with the straight nose and amber eyes. Or maybe Zamitie, that witch knew everything. Swallowing the bile that burnt at the back of his throat, Zevran found himself angry. This woman had somehow **known** his mother. Claimed **kinship** with her. And his mother had been a whore. Sold into slavery when her suddenly-dead husband’s debts had to be paid. _

_“Well, then,” he rasped, his throat constricting on the bitterness, “someone should have told the whores who raised me that. Or perhaps her **family** could have done something? No, rather she became a whore.” Crowding the Dalish woman, Zevran trapped her with hands braced on the wall on either side of her head. “And someone got her with child for no more than five silvers, probably **less**. Fourteen months later, she died giving birth to me prematurely. She was sold over less than ninety silvers worth of debt, but truly, what matter of it? What matters of her desires? Of her not wanting to stand for some child made over a few silvers being sold into the Guild? Uhn? Uhn?” Punching the wall beside the Dalish's head, he fought not to yell in her face. “What matters of anyone saying what they will and will not stand for? **I am a slave**. Purchased for three whole sovereigns – a damn sight more than my mother!.” _

_A hand came up, cupping his cheek, horror and pain in large blue eyes. “Aie, **hamin da'len. Ar tu'abelas**. My boy, my nephew. We knew not of what happened to her. She left us and our wandering ways.” _

_The gentle touch on his cheek made Zevran's skin burn, yet he found himself leaning into it, eyes lidded. “For an elven woodcutter. He died of the ague, and she was unable to support herself. The tax collectors....”_

_“ **Hamin** , nephew, peace. Put away your bladed words.” A work-roughened hand – or maybe it was from a bow? Or blade? The callous on her hand was similar to his – passed over his brow. “As your aunt, I claim you. You take my name now, you take the name of Arainai.”_

_Wincing he pulled away, still bitter. “I am no Dalish. I refuse your name. I do not want it!” Gesturing, “You speak in words I do not know, you say things that cannot be. You cannot be my aunt, yet you knew my mother. An aunt would know her blood, an aunt would know that her blood was a slave. Take your meaningless platitudes and damn yourself to the Pit.”_

_“Come with the clan, we leave first light.” She was fast, he would grant Arainai that. She caught him by the shoulders, giving him a shake. “You are no slave. I will not let my blood be used and abused as a Crow.”_

_Shoving her away, he snapped, “I am what I am, and I am no blood of yours! I repudiate you.”_

_…._

_Sitting cross-legged, Zevran hung his head from the forgotten pain. “Why do you stir such things in my mind, Crow?”_

_“You were wrong, weren't you?” As always, there were only questions, never any real answers._

_Biting his lip, Zevran shook his head. “No. I was not. I could not have been.”_

_“She knew you as her blood, even from seeing you simply sitting down, from behind, didn't she?” Crow was across from him, mirroring his pose._

_Swallowing his pain, he admitted, “Yes. She did.”_

_“At least you can admit when you are wrong.” Crow nodded, seeming satisfied._

_….._

_Sore lying in bed, Zevran stared at the ceiling. Rinna was curled up against him, curly blonde mop of hair cascading over his forearm from the way he was holding her to him. He could tell she was awake, no matter that she feigned sleep. In the morning, he had to scope out his next mark; he had no time for such games as she was playing tonight._

_Nudging her, he lifted his shoulder a few times. “Get up, woman. I need to sleep.”_

_There was no answer but for steady breathing, warm and moist against his neck. With her breasts pushed up against his side, Zevran could feel her heartbeat, and it was far too fast to be her sleeping rate. Closing his eyes, he drifted for a moment, but not long. Just enough to enjoy the sensation of a warm, soft body pressed to him with no worries for attack...at least for the moment. No Crow was to be trusted, no matter how well they were known, and especially not one's apprentice who was also a lover._

_Grunting, he swatted her bottom gently. “Rinna, I can feel your heartbeat. I can hear your blood in your veins. You are awake. Now get up.”_

_Finally she spoke, curling in closer. “I don't want to. I'm comfortable.”_

_“I am not going to sleep with you, woman.” He shifted away in an attempt to gain some distance. She really did feel too good beside him, and he didn't want to deal with the temptation._

_“Well, if we can't sleep...” one dancer-toned leg slipped over his hips, smoothly moving to straddle him, “...how about we don't sleep at all?”_

_Moaning, Zevran felt his flesh stir automatically at the sensation of wetness. Hands planted on his chest, Rinna rose up, angling her hips, Zevran met her halfway, sliding in easily; causing them both to groan in unison, once they were joined. Silken muscles clamped on his cock, holding him deep inside. Rubbing her thighs, he allowed Rinna her head, rocking up to meet her and watching her firm breasts sway with each slow lunge._

_The sheets were tangled somewhere down near his feet, the linen rough with sweat from the amount the two Crows had given each other earlier. His lids drooped, captivated by the vision of the elven lass enjoying his body without any of their usual frenzy. Smoothing his palms over hips, belly and up to her breasts, Zevran molded them in his large hands the way he knew she liked. As a reward for his efforts, he earned a kiss, Rinna bowing over him so her lips could meet his._

_At that, his upwards thrusts slowed to a halt, his breathing going deep and easy. There was something about Rinna, and her mouth on his, that made it hard for him to think. Burying a hand in her hair, Zevran held her close, the other hand going to her hip, causing her to still. The taste of saliva and sex on her tongue met his, twining and tangling, the two Crows – teacher and apprentice – near silent, the way only long-trained assassins could be. Finally, Rinna pulled away, but Zevran followed for a moment before catching himself._

_Licking his lips, the Crow sat up, gathering Rinna close, claiming her mouth once more. The look in her eyes, in those dark coffee depths, before they closed was intense. In a heap they fell to their sides, Zevran on top, hungry for more and less at once. His skin shivered in reaction to the stroking over his broad back, to his hair being loosened from the thick braid he always wore it in when not washing it. Like sleeping, Zevran never let anyone take his hair down. It could be used as a weapon – either against him or for him. In fact he had even taken out a mark once with the thick rope his hair became when braided. But her fingers felt so good, so Zevran ignored the warning voice and all his training, for the moment. His world was focused down to Rinna, to the weight of his thick blond hair becoming looser and looser by the second._

_She murmured, “I've always wondered how long it really was,” pulling a thick swath of it through her spread fingers, and Zevran groaned, sucking on one of her nipples desperately. She arched slowly into his mouth, her eyes closing in ecstasy as her fingers combed through his hair._

_He was driven to action; grabbing one of her legs, licking and kissing – gently, urgently, worshipful – Zevran mapped her torso. His hair was being spread over his shoulders and back, Rinna sighing quietly to herself, a tiny gasp coming from her overly lush lips when he nuzzled at her sex. Lapping at the folds, he groaned, the fingers massaging his scalp maddening. A heavy strand of hair slithered over his arm feeling like the cornsilk it so resembled. The swollen lips of Rinna's womanhood greeted him with their glistening nectar, his questing tongue snaking over each petal._

_“Zev-” her hips lifted from his bed for a moment before sinking back down._

_Savouring the way her smell and taste and touch filled his senses, Zevran brought her over the precipice. Moving back up Rinna's body, he returned to kissing her, satisfied from this simple act in a way he couldn't remember before. It was intense. He needed her to leave. Now._

_He looked at her, propping himself up on his elbows. “You should go to bed, Rinna.”_

_“Why? Yours is right here,” lips found an ear, and Zevran moaned as she nibbled at it softly._

_“I mean it, Rinna. Go to bed,” he growled, unable to stop himself from kissing her again. “I swear, I will kill you if you do not leave. Now.”_

_A tinkling laugh was what he received in response. “Promise? Make sure you're thorough.”_

_“ **Braska** , woman, I swear I need sleep.” Crawling after her on the bed, he sat on the edge of the mattress, kissing her stomach as she slipped free._

_“Oh, no you don't. Or are you getting old? Poor Zevran, twenty-two, you're a veritable old man!” More finger-dragging through his hair tugged his head back._

_Growling at her, he nipped her hip. “Oh, for that my dear girl, I **will** kill you!”_

_“Like I said – promise to be thorough!” Wiggling her hips at him saucily, she went to his door._

_“When have you ever known me to not be thorough? And make sure you lock that door on your way out!” he called at her as Rinna exited, naked as the day she was born._

_Sighing he slumped onto the bed, dragging the blankets from the floor and wrapped himself around a pillow. It smelled of Rinna. Of Rinna, him and sex. Clenching his eyes closed, Zevran curled tighter around it, mashing it to his chest as tightly as he could, so much so that he was able to put his hands on the backs of his shoulders._

_Settling down to go to sleep, finally, he willfully forgot that his hair was still loose. Tomorrow it would be a nightmare to untangle, but, for now, he didn't care. **Rinna liked it down....** A click at his door, locks being picked and tumbled, jerked him away from the muzzy thoughts._

_Face pressed into his pillow still, he called out, “Rinna,” drawing her name out long, “I told you to go to bed!” Glancing up, he saw Taliesen framed in the doorway, even as he closed it behind him. “Oh. What is it now? If you want anything, I am all tapped out, my friend. Rinna used me up, and I would not wish to shame myself by being a poor bed companion.”_

_In all actuality, Zevran had no desire to entertain the human at all. Since the elf had returned from Llomerryn, that strangeness in the other man had yet to abate. His kisses and hands could be cruel, and Zevran got enough of that from marks. Everything would be all demand, take and take. No giving. Not that Zevran wasn't able to still enjoy himself, but he got **bored** with such constant aggression._

_Taliesen – his mentor for many years, his lover for almost the same number, and a friend still, as much as any could be – ignored him. His street clothes were discarded, and he joined Zevran on the bed, touching the loose spill of gold that spread over the bed._

_“I never realized it was so long,” he commented, twirling a finger through the end. “You never let it down where anyone can see.”_

_Grunting, Zevran sat up, gathering his hair at the nape of his neck roughly, and twisting it into a haphazard tail. “What do you want, my friend? I am in no mood for your play. I am tired, and there is nothing left for you here. It has all been taken.”_

_That was true in so many ways... But Zevran didn't want to think about that, either. He was too disoriented and out of sorts – too tired, in all likelihood – for any games._

_Something flashed in Taliesen's green eyes, so fast Zevran couldn't identify it. “If that is the case, then perhaps I shall see if Rinna still has anything to spare.”_

_That struck a nerve, and Zevran, tired as he was, became angry quickly. Rinna and he had been at each other for half the day, and if **he** didn't have anything left, then she most certainly didn't need someone bothering her for more. Lunging at his friend, Zevran pinned the larger man down, biting hard, nudging knees apart with his muscular thigh._

_“Perhaps I was wrong,” he muttered into the broad chest and its dusting of hair. “I do seem to have some left for you.”_

_Taliesen laughed, arching as Zevran set to taking him until the other man dropped from exhaustion._

_…._

_Stretching languidly, he nabbed the rolled tobacc leaf stuffed with ganja from Taliesen. The two of them were relaxing on the moonlight-painted roof of the trainees’ barracks. Rising to sit up, Zevran drew deep on the spliff, holding the harsh smoke in his lungs for several seconds. Releasing the cloud of dark gray smoke, he smiled, enjoying the warm languor that spread through his body._

_“I leave tomorrow, you know.” Taliesen draped his arm over the bronze elf's shoulders, pulling him closer._

_Nodding, he passed the blunt back. “Ah, so it seems you are to be a Crow before me. Well, I wish you luck.”_

_“I'll need it,” he said, taking a drag before coughing as he exhaled. Zevran snorted at that, as the human trainee leaned down to kiss him. “I won't have you there to keep me in check, to make me think before I step.”_

_He hummed in the back of his throat after his sometimes-lover pulled away. “Good, you are too lazy otherwise.”_

_A window below them – the very same one that they had used to gain the roof – creaked open. Zevran pulled away from Taliesen, slithering to one side, crouching. The curly mop of blonde hair that came over the side was paired with large brown eyes and a frown. Nearby, the human trainee cursed, stubbing out their blunt, scattering the reefer to the wind. Not relaxing, remaining tense, he knew that it was 'just Rinna', but amongst the initiates there was never a 'just someone'. Everyone was a potential rival; everyone was a potential opponent. Taliesen and Zevran were strange amongst their peers, and knew it. Rinna was a wild card, she had risen through the ranks of trainees at an alarming rate, using speed and accuracy like it was as easy as breathing. In comparison, Taliesen with his brute strength and dual blades appeared clumsy._

_Zevran was one of the few who was consistently able not only to disarm, but to subdue Rinna._

_And that meant she was **dangerous** , newer recruit or not._

_“I thought I saw you two slip away,” climbing the rest of the way up, she nimbly avoided dislodging any of the tile shingles. He watched as she pushed some of her wavy, shoulder length hair away from her face, revealing dainty pointed ears that were as sharp as her gaze. “The top two trainees in the barracks...there's whispers about you.”_

_“Oh? Do tell, little chickadee, sing a song of it, eh? What do they say?” Zevran carefully eased his fingers into his waistband, palming the small throwing dagger there._

_As if she were utterly unaware that she was outnumbered and out-massed, Rinna crawled until she could lay down and look up at the sky, fishing something from between her breasts. “And what will you do to me if I won't say?”_

_Taliesen moved to accept the pouch she held out to him, while the halfbreed Dalish answered. “Ah-ha, so it is to be games of bodies rather than words? **Como desees, guapa.** ”_

_“Hey, this is the good stuff!” The human had by now opened the small pouch and sniffed it. “Where did you come across this Rinna? Cannabis like this isn't so easy to find.”_

_A cocky smile, sharp – almost a complete copy of Zevran's usual one – twisted her mouth sensually. “From **Maestro** Soloise. I nicked it from his night desk.” She snapped slim, dainty fingers. “Easy marks. Word is that most of us are too cowed to bother with such frivolous activities, except you two. I've been watching, and you both sneak off – successfully – more than any others. So, I wanted to see what trouble you got into when not under watchful eyes.”_

_“And to see if you could join in?” Snorting, Zevran finally relaxed, accepting the bag of ganja and rolling some of its contents lightening quick into two spliffs._

_Taliesen, ever the more open and truly friendly one, smiled at the elven lass. “Welcome aboard then!”_

_Using a quick-light match, Zevran puffed the blunt to light, holding it out to Rinna. “To a mutually beneficial partnership in crime.”_

_She smiled, rubbing a hand on each youth's thigh. “May it last as long as it can!”_

XXX

Varathorn was watching him warily, tolerant, but suspicious of the interloper. Not that Zevran cared particularly, he was merely trying to occupy himself. Lahar had been catatonic for two weeks now. He had managed to keep her from losing more weight by force-feeding her halla cheese and milk, adding mashed grains and even vegetables to the mix. Now she was even gaining weight, but still her sleeping form looked wasted, devoid of the usual vitality and animation, leaving her something of a husk. So, he needed distraction. The Dalish craftsmaster would provide well enough.

Holding up a long shaft of wood about half the thickness of his wrist, Zevran sighted down it. “Willow, good and flexible. It is a fine and practical choice, reliable. But I need something with more strength than this.”

“May I ask as to what you wish to use it for?” Varathorn stilled his hands from their work on sharpening a new blade.

Stepping back, Zevran gave the unworked staff a few experimental passes through the air. “Mph, for Lahar.”

The older elf tilted his head. “She is a mage, is she not?”

“Yes,” he murmured, slipping a hand towards the bottom of the staff and one to the center, moving into a smooth spin, watching the way the wood flexed. 

“Does she not have a suitable mage's staff?” Zevran could feel the old man warily watching as Zevran re-familiarized himself with the feel of wood sliding along his palms.

It had been _years_ since he had held a staff like this. Eyes closing, breathing deep and slow, building up speed and momentum, Zevran whipped into a back flip. Feet impacted the ground, rolling from heel to toe, absorbing the shock, the Crow twisted to the side and into a side flip, legs spinning so that if there had been an opponent there they would have received one foot after another. Stabbing the air with the end of the staff, then slicing back and forth, he was satisfied that this seemingly simple overlarge stick would do as a practice weapon.

Barely even warmed up, Zevran stopped. “There is no such thing as a suitable mage's staff. They are all unwieldy and do not function as much of anything other than some clunky and gaudy, sparkle covered thing that wastes space.”

“And so what would you do? They are not fighters, _fen'assan_ , and do not bear arms,” he argued, shaking his head at what Zevran supposed he saw as a foolish, city-corrupted elf.

“What I shall do, valued elder, is make her a weapon.” He set the willow staff aside, sorting through some of the other base materials. “She may not always be able to rely upon spellwork and must be prepared for many different situations. Surely you can see the wisdom in this?”

Varathorn shrugged, clearly uncaring but willing to humor the Antivan. “She is your _asha_. What I see as wise is not my my place to say.” The elf sighed in exasperation. “Truly if you wish to make her a weapon of a staff, there is only one sort of wood with good flexibility and strength. Are you going to teach her what you were just doing?”

Zevran grunted. “But of course. What else would I be teaching her?”

“As you say then.” Going across the worksite, he went to a chest and unlocked it. He pulled out a long bundle, which he then presented to Zevran . “Ironbark. I can fashion it into a staff for her.”

Pulling a flap of the leather back, he countered, “No, I will make it.”

Varathorn sucked in a sharp breath of shock – it was rude, Zevran knew, to refuse such a skilled artisan’s efforts, but in this case the Dalish would not truly understand what he intended to do with the wood. “And do you have the knack at all?”

Humourlessly, Zevran smiled, pulling out a long branch that he could warp and work to his needs. “In Arainai's clan, each of us had to learn three skills. I was proficient at two of the three skills I focused on. Hunting and woodwork. Worry not, I will not be wasting this resource.”

Gathering what he would need, Zevran set to drawing where he would carve channels into the staff. Near the middle of the long piece of wood, he drew a starburst that wrapped around, the points of the star trailing into winding ivy and the shape of moondrop flowers. Then selecting a pointed gouging chisel from the tools he had nicked from Varathorn's supply, he went over the black designs, chipping out just the outlines.

Varathorn checked his progress from where he was working on a chainmail vest. “That is a very fine design you have there.”

Keeping his eyes locked on his work, he kept the staff solidly braced between his knee and thigh. “Thank you _lethallin_. I shall be inlaying metal into it after I have the base chipped out, and will need some sort of wire and sheet to use as inlay.” Pausing for a moment, he wiped away the wood chips. “I have some silverite from a broken set of armor that could be melted down; do you have the setup to do such a thing?”

The old man measured him thoughtfully. “You truly are aware of the difficulty of working with these materials?”

“I am not a fine craftsman, no,” he admitted, “but I can make something like this. A staff is not so difficult a weapon to make, and as my apprentice level test, I made several for my clan.”

“Only an apprentice?” Seeming surprised, the Dalish's brows rose high on his forehead, as he began taking out crucibles and stoking a strong fire in his kiln.

Chuckling, Zevran replied, “Ah, I was too young and rambunctious to have the patience required to attain more levels than that.” _Also I did not stay with Arainai's clan long enough to,_ which he left unsaid. “I was much more suited to the life of ranger. I was fortunate that my aunt was the clan's master ranger, so I had some bias towards those skills.”

Varathorn rolled out a barrel of some pungent liquid. “Hmm... May I make a recommendation then? After you are done with the designs, soak the staff in this. You and I shall work at melting the metal for the inlay, and tomorrow, bury your Bonded's staff in coals so it will harden.”

Blinking rapidly for a moment, Zevran frowned, then nodded. “I had not thought of that.”

The old Dalish chortled, reaching out for tongs and heavy gloves. “For the time being then, I shall further your education in crafting. Perhaps we can learn a bit from each other?”

Nodding, he fell into the easy mode of rapt pupil, as he so often had in the past. “That would be absolutely marvelous, and a privilege.”

Together the two men set to work, and Zevran found a moment's peace. It had been many years since he was last able to relax into learning, absorbing information and minutia at a pace that was probably startling to the Dalish. Then again, the way the Crow had grown up had forced him to be able to take in everything at once, sort it quickly into ordered lines in his mind, and gain the maximum benefit from any time spent learning a task. It was a matter of pure survival in the Guild, and Zevran was absolutely nothing if not a survivor.

It was what he excelled at most in life.

Surviving.

_But what is living?_

It was a question that would haunt him for a long time.

XXX

Da’len, E - little one  
Lethallin, E - cousin  
Perfecto, S - perfect/good  
Preciosa, S - precious  
Da’mi, E - little blade  
Puta, S - Bitch/whore  
El'dirthera, E - Our speaker/storyteller  
Hahren, E - elder  
comemierda hija de puta, S - aprox: shit eating daughter of a whore/bitch (implied: you shit eating motherfucker)  
Mierda, S - Shit  
Ar tu'abelas, E - I have caused sorrow/I am the cause of sorrow  
Hamin - peace  
Como desees, guapa, S - as you wish, good looking (f)  
fen'assan - wolf arrow  
asha - woman


	11. Chapter 11

XXX  
Murder 10  
XXX

Rolling Lahar over, Zevran pushed her left leg so the knee touched her chest while massaging her calf and foot. Taking care to stretch each of her joints, the Antivan also rubbed oil into her skin. Leliana was giving Lahar's arms the same treatment of stretching and massaging protective oil into the tiny mage's delicate flesh. 

“Zevran, I have a question for you,” her Orlesian accent was thick on the Ferelden words. 

Closing his eyes, the Antivan sat on the bed, pulling Lahar's leg up to his shoulder, rolling his thumbs into the muscles of her thigh. “Hmmm...the last time a woman said she had a question for me, I wound up being partially disemboweled. Auck, well – I like to live dangerously. Ask away, my lovely Orlesian flower.”

“Well...” The red-head leaned down, pulling muscles and tendons along Lahar's various arm bones. “It was my understanding that the Crows didn't tolerate weakness. Especially not something like this.”

“Hmm, weakness,” he mused, switching to Lahar’s other leg. “You are correct, weakness is not tolerated. But, is this weakness?” 

“She is defenseless, unable to fight. That would be weakness, correct?” The bard moved to work on the other side of the bed. 

“That would be where you are quite wrong,” he countered, shifting so he could gently remove her shirt; it was one of his that he had sacrificed to be a nightdress for her. “She is not truly defenseless, and she is fighting. We just cannot see it. It is in the Fade, this battle of will. So, no, she is not weak.”

“Well, wouldn't the Guild deem her to be?” Leliana grabbed the bowl and wash cloth in it, assisting him in cleaning up the sweat from the Warden's body.

Zevran thought about it for several moments, then shook his head. “No. They would understand that one of their number was going through some battle, and until it was proved that the person in this state had failed in that war, they would care for the injured party.” Shrugging, each swipe of moist cloth was followed by a dry one, blotting away moisture. “Lahar would be considered too valuable to waste, just as she is to us. So, we shall not waste such a vital resource.”

“Important to us, or important to you?” The question made his hackles rise, but was amusing.

“Ah, my fair lady, who else would we follow? I would not follow any of the others, the Sten would not follow any of us either, Alistair would not know how to lead, and Morrigan would kill anyone who irritated her,” he said, snorting. “So, that leaves Lahar to lead, from those of us that could conceivably step forward, as you or Wynne would never think to do so. Even if our fair Warden were not a good one, she would be the only one we could all agree upon, one way or another. So...she is vital for all of us, in our individual ways.” Quirking a smile, he added, “Besides, she is my ticket to freedom from the Crows and holds my personal oath of loyalty. I would be remiss if I did not look after her.”

Leliana made a tiny moue of distaste. “Are you sure it has nothing to do with that Bonding ritual? She _is_ your wife...”

 _Ah, you are not so stupid as you play at,_ he thought, smile broadening. Straddling Lahar's legs, Zevran set to oiling her torso. _Wives are nothing at all to one such as I unless we choose them. I may be a Master Crow and be within my rights to choose a wife, but that does not mean I ever **wanted** one._ But...it did bear thinking about. The Crow knew he was inordinately protective of the mage; then again, what he said had been true. Lahar was his ticket to freedom, and even if she never released him from his oath, even if he simply stayed by her side, she was a pleasing enough master that he could happily deal with her.

Once the two rogues were finished, Zevran picked Lahar up, while Leliana changed the sheets. “I still think it's very sweet the way you are with her, even if it is for purely selfish reasons you do this.”

“Hmm, as the saying goes, ‘The best poisons are the sweetest.’” Tugging the covers up to Lahar's shoulders, he tucked them firmly around her. 

They got her fed quickly, and Zevran was pleased at how Lahar appeared to have not only ceased her weight loss, but also to be gaining some. When they finally left the Dalish, she would need all the reserves that could be packed on. _Even Rinna had more meat on her,_ he reflected, brushing some of the young woman's hair from her cheeks. _I suppose it would be too much to ask if your breasts were bigger._ He was glad that the Orlesian was gone from the _aravel_ and would not witness the casual way he ran his palm over the sleeping mage's bosom. 

Settling down, Zevran curled around her protectively, stroking her cheek with his thumb as he began to drowse. Just as he was drifting off, there was a tiny shift beside him. Eyes popping open, he saw Lahar's face had turned towards his, her eyes fluttering as they struggled to stay open.

“Lahar? _Mi cielo_?” Scooting to sit up, taking Lahar with him, he pulled her tight to his chest. “Lahar?”

“Mmmmnuh,” she murmured, blinking drunkenly. 

Swallowing his shock, the Crow took her pulse. “If you can understand what I am saying, grunt.”

He got a little snort. “'ehvrahn.”

“Do you need anything?” He shushed her with a finger over her lips. “I will say a word, and if you make a noise, I will assume you want that. Do you understand?”

“Unmf.” One lid slid closed in a blink, the other remaining open, the pupil flexing large then small.

“Water.” No response. “Food.” Again, no response. “Healing.” No response. “Piss.” Again, no response, and Zevran could tell Lahar needed something. “Fresh air?” Yet again – nothing. Stroking the side of her cheek, he admitted, “ _Mi vida,_ I have no more ideas....”

Her eyes fell closed completely as he whispered, running his hand over her forehead and cheek. As he began to draw away her eyes opened and she made a noise. Zevran was at his wit’s end and was almost ready to go seek Wynne's assistance, as much as it would gall him to.

“Nuuu,” she moaned, twitching in his arms. 

“I am here, _mi diosa_ ,” he tried to reassure her, touching her cheek once more. 

And again she relaxed. “'ehvrahn.”

Locking onto that, he looked at her intently. “Touch? Is that what you need?”

“Umnf.” There was a twitch of her head, in what could almost be a nod. “Mo'.”

Running his fingers over her face, Zevran leaned down, pressing his lips to her temple. “Is this what you want?”

“Mo'. Mo',” she murmured, wiggling in his arms weakly. “Schkinnn...”

Surprised, Zevran looked down at her, tipping her head back gently. “Skin?”

“Umnf,” she grunted, blinking rapidly.

Slowly, he set her down. “A moment, I am right here.”

Quickly the Antivan stripped down, and pulled his shirt off of her, tossing all of it to the floor, then slid under the blankets to press close. A relieved sigh came from his little mage. He shivered. _She is freezing!_ Wrapping himself around her, tucking her face into his neck, Zevran twined his legs with hers. Rubbing at her back, his mind raced. _She was not this cold earlier... Then again, she was not awake..._

She was like ice, as if she had let loose one of those ice storms, and they were stuck in it. Zevran shuddered, body shaking in reaction, but they both would need his body-heat. _Blankets, we need more blankets...._ However, he couldn't do anything about that without leaving Lahar's side. After a particularly bad set of shakes rocked Lahar, Zevran winced, knowing that there was no hope for it – he would have to find something else to help her warm up other than himself.

“ _Preciosa,_ I have to get more blankets, something to keep us warm,” he told her, grimacing. “Do you understand?”

“Unmf.” There was a tiny nod. “'Esh.”

Slipping from the bed quickly, he went to the door, ignoring his nudity, and called out to the first of their number that he saw. “Alistair!”

“Huh? What? Oh dear Maker, Zevran, you're...”

“Blankets, hot rocks, something – Lahar is freezing, bring them in _now_!” He only stayed in the doorway long enough to impart the message and see that it was understood.

Racing back to the bed, he dove under the blankets, enveloping Lahar in his arms once more. Slim fingers dug into his sides, and Zevran repositioned her hands so that one was on his backside – _At least it is warm back there_ – and tucked the other one into one of his armpits.

Alistair opened the door to the _aravel_ warily, not looking up. “Ah, Zevran, I've got a few blankets.....” The Templar glanced up, then was clearly taken aback. “Uh. Whoa, I can see your breath.”

Keeping his jaw locked, he ground out, “How very astute. Bring the blankets over here and call Ser Prize in. If you can find Morrigan, have her warm some rocks and tuck them between the blankets.”

The large _shemlen_ did as he said quickly, dropping his usual oafish act. Zevran's skin burned with the cold, and he had to force himself not to breathe too quickly, to concentrate on maintaining his core temperature. A meditative state came over him, the same kind that had been drilled into him by the Guild during the various endurance training that all initiates underwent. Antivan winters were mild, but the waters of Rialto Bay would plunge to frigid levels. Aspiring Crows would have to link arms and float in the shallows, letting the waves wash over them; sand would grind into their bare flesh, and a few would become hypothermic. On rare occasions someone would die of it, but that was very rare, indeed. 

Around him, he could hear the others coming and going, but he paid them no mind. He was awake, and they were doing as he had requested. The bed creaked as Ser Prize wuffled and crawled up to snuggle against Lahar's back. Almost twenty stone of mabari generated _a lot_ of heat. With the addition of the spell-heated stones that Morrigan tucked between layers of blankets, Zevran could feel the temperature slowly rising in the air around he and Lahar. As small as the _aravel_ was, it couldn't accommodate many people at once. Truly, more than two people, other than those on the bed, was too many. However, the others kept crowding around, and at some point, Zevran realized that while his mage was still very cold, she had begun to hide in his chest.

Nuzzling at her crown, he pitched his voice very low and soft, for her ears alone. “Lahar, _mi cielo, mi vida, mi diosa_ , do you want me to ask them to leave?”

Lahar had stopped shaking by now, her body limp and getting warmer and warmer, but she had yet to make any more noise. Cupping the back of her head, Zevran rubbed his face close to her ear, repeating his quiet question. For a reply it was wordless, but he understood the sudden clenching of fingers and the minute nodding of her head. 

“Alright, that is enough,” he said, using the voice that no matter how quietly he spoke, would still cut through a crowded room. “I shall take over from here.”

Morrigan hovered a moment, then nodded decisively. “I shall take your turn hunting with the scouts.”

Alistair fidgeted around uneasily. “Maybe Wynne or Leliana should stay with her tonight?”

Zevran tugged some of the covers up a little further, to cover Lahar even more. “Alistair, as much as I appreciate your assistance, I do believe that matters are under control now. Please, some privacy.” 

The elder mage had yet to speak, but she was clearly waiting for her opportunity. “I should check over Lahar, now.”

Ser Prize grunted, scooting so he could lay his massive head on his mistress' hip, staring at the old woman. 

“I understand, Wynne, truly I do. Apprentices grow up so fast and do so many adult things,” he responded, using a gentle tone of voice, as though he were sympathizing. “But eventually they do stand on their own feet, and being too protective is more detrimental to their development. I believe our fairest Warden is at this point, and she is currently in the good hands of her husband.”

Wynne's lips thinned down to a narrow slash. “You are not her husband.”

“Oh, to the contrary, I am,” he said, maintaining an even tone. Carefully Zevran pulled his arm from under the pile of material, showing off his forearm. “Tagged and bagged, as we Crows used to call being married, and the Dalish lay visible, permanent proof in their skins. This, right here, gives me the right to tell you when you are not welcome or are unnecessary in our shared, private quarters. Now please, I do not wish to have a verbal battle with you at this time. I have much more important things to take care of.”

From the vicinity of his neck, Lahar made a barely intelligible sentence. “Plesh, gu Wun.”

“If you are sure dear.” Wynne came closer, leaning over the small bed and making the Antivan's skin crawl. 

However, he could do nothing further, entangled as he was and on his side, without making him look bad to Lahar, even though the hand that had strayed under the pillow was gripping a knife, ready to roll over and plunge it into a waiting neck. He forced his muscles to relax, eyes falling into a lazy hooded countenance, his ears pressed tight to his skull. He was waiting and listening, prepared. Logic dictated that Wynne would do nothing; however, that did not mean that every instinct he had would simply go away. 

“M'feen, Wun.” Another garbled sentence, but its meaning was clear enough for even the devoutly obtuse.

“Alright then, goodnight, dear.” Straightening, the Circle mage left.

 _Finally!_

Ser Prize glanced at him and Lahar, his abnormally intelligent eyes almost human. Then he, too, made to leave, hopping from the bed, and coming over to Zevran, pressing his cold wet nose to the arm that was still over the pile of blankets. Twisting so he could scratch the large mabari behind the ears, he gave the beast a smile.

“Ah, so you will not be staying? Would you be willing to guard the door then, my friend?” he asked, rubbing the short, bristly fur on the dog's head. 

“Wuff!” he responded, coupled with a quick wiggle of his big butt. 

Lahar clumsily pulled her arms from around him. “Let 'im oot?”

The bronze elf had to concentrate for a moment to understand the tiny Warden. “Yes, I shall let him out. I think you and I shall be able to stay warm enough now, with all these rocks in the bed, without his assistance, yes?”

“'esh,” she mumbled, slowly wiggling in the bed.

 _Her motor skills are nonexistent,_ he thought, going to open the door for Ser Prize, who only went far enough to flop down at the foot of the little folding steps. _She was warm until she woke up, then went to pure ice, and her speech is garbled at best._ It was distressing to say the least. Never, in any of his encounters with someone waking from catatonic states – well, more coma than catatonia – had he seen such a response. Not that any of them had been ready to jump head-first into action right after wakening, but even so, they generally had some actual control over their bodies. _Then again, none of those I ever knew were mages._ Pausing long enough to pour some tea from the skin that hung by the bed into a clay mug, Zevran gulped it down, before quickly refilling it. _Mages in the Guild...are always separate. I never actually knew any ‘real’ mages until Lahar._ Lifting her to sit up partially, he bid her to drink the contents of the cup. _Strange creatures they are. Burning with so many fell energies, consuming them from the inside out with each spell they cast. No wonder blood magic came to be. Better to burn someone else out than oneself, if one has the ability..._

Setting aside the cup, he looked back to her. “Is there anything else you desire, _mi cielo_?”

“Schkinn, plez,” came out in a huff. “Tooch...ankur...meh.”

Leaning in, he tried to translate. “Ankur? Anchor?”

“'esh.” This was accompanied by more wiggling that almost dislodged the mountain of cloth atop her.

“Shh, do not struggle, _encantadora_ ,” he admonished gently, scooting under the blankets once more. 

As soon as he was under, she was wriggling closer, her face pressing into the crook of his neck. Closing his eyes, the Crow sighed, breathing deep. The scent of the herb-infused almond oil he had been using as a protectant for Lahar's delicate skin had mixed with her natural fragrance. Snow and the tang of ozone, blended with amber and roses, was light and sweet, rising from her skin as he stroked his hands over her shoulders and back, soothing her the only way he knew how. 

Lahar sighed into his neck, and the nerves in his skin shivered in reaction. Of course the Crow had gone long stretches without any intimacy in his life, but those were cases where he had chosen celibacy, and so the fact that it had been more than three weeks was presenting itself to him, rather rudely, as his elven mage merely breathed on him. 

It was the sensation of woman – awake, aware, naked, pressed to him – and her erratic breathing as he petted her that was beginning to drive him to distraction. _Ah, Zevran, you must control yourself. There is time for that later. Allow her to convalesce somewhat before you try anything!_ That, and...he wasn't sure if she was aware she was even doing it, but every few seconds her tongue would lick her lips and brush over his skin. 

Finally he could take no more. “ _Mi vida, por favor, nunca mas_ , have mercy.”

“'evrahn?” she squirmed weakly against him. 

“It has been some time...and you are...your mouth...it is...” He stumbled, searching for a tactful way of telling her she was giving him blue balls. “I am aroused at the moment, and what you are doing is making me even more so.”

Lahar stilled – listening to him, he could tell, even though he couldn't see her face – and then, very deliberately, licked him again. Already painfully hard, Zevran twitched, shifting his hips carefully once more so that he wouldn't be pressing his burgeoning erection against her, wouldn't invade the young woman's personal space. For his consideration, he got a weak nip right over the vein in his neck, and a flopping hand moved to his hip and squeezed.

“ _Pequeña_ , it has been weeks, my tolerance for teasing is not very high,” he tried to warn her.

“Tooch...want...need,” she mumbled, lips moving with the partially slurred words.

Zevran rolled so that he was hovering over Lahar. “You are in no condition for such things, _mi diosa_. I would not wish to hurt you.”

His resolve was crumbling, and they both knew it. Not that Zevran had been very resolved in the first place. It had been a near thing a time or two in the last few days, when he almost decided that the satisfaction that came from his hand would be better supplemented by availing himself of the convenient body nearby. Technically, by Dalish custom, he would have been within his rights; however, Zevran had a feeling that Lahar would have found out – in fact he probably would have told her himself – and that she would have felt violated. So, he had refrained. 

But it had been a very close thing.

Nuzzling at her jaw, holding himself over her, he was careful not to rest any weight on her. “Lahar, I am tightly wound, and I am unsure of the wisdom of taking you.”

She arched her neck, and he could see her forcing herself to focus on him clearly. “Need anchooor to here.” Her head dropped back on the pillow. “Head spirit-mad-ness. Fight’ing. _Need ankoor here._ ” A small growl came from her bow shaped lips. “Want yoo tooch. Pleesh.”

 _Well then. There is no use arguing common sense with **that** sort of entreaty, now is there?_ Duty to consideration discharged, Zevran gradually lay himself over Lahar, his mouth finding the corner of her jaw. Ice and the semi-sweetness of rose was licked and nibbled there, while he nudged her thighs apart with his hips, rubbing his aching hardness over the plush softness of her curl covered sex. Beneath him, his Warden sighed in relief, an arm artlessly flopping to wrap around his waist. He was aware she wouldn't be up for much in the way of participation, but he did like the fact that, even as difficult as it was for her, Lahar was still trying. 

Dropping kisses over her rounded shoulders, he flexed his hips, rubbing her folds apart with the underside of his cock, and even here, Lahar was chilly. However, he knew that once he breached the exterior, she would be hot and moist. Taking his time, the Antivan lavished attention on her neck and chest, making occasional forays to her ears. Of course, that got him the most vocal response, the organs being so full of nerves as any elf's were, which aided in their sharp hearing. Once, he had explained it to Taliesen as like having extra sex organs; they were so sensitive, a simple stroke or nuzzle, let alone sucking or nipping at the cartilage, would prompt immediate response. 

Reaching between them, Zevran pressed himself to Lahar's now weeping opening, pushing the broad head into her gradually with short little rocks of his hips. Around him, her sheath flexed and stretched, yet so tight, it was stealing his breath in inaudible moans. It was as he flexed forward that he realized there was so little resistance from her body that she could not stay still upon the sheets. She slid upward, and she was so frail, he feared harming her if he held to her too tightly with his weight so fully upon her. Practicality suddenly dictated a different approach.

Rolling free of the mage, he went to his back, even as she cried out in protest. 

Zevran quieted her gently. “Shhh, I have no intention of stopping, _mi vida_. I merely do not wish to risk harming you.”

Tugging her atop him, positioning her legs to fall to either side of his, Zevran took her hips in hand. Raising them up enough so he could push at her warmth, the Antivan rocked her onto him slowly. Lahar's face was resting beside his head, breathy mewlings escaping her with each gentle motion as she gradually sank lower and lower onto his thick girth. A moan worked its way from his throat as he thrust upwards against the way Zevran pulled her up and down his length. 

Head tipping back and bracing on the pillow, Zevran found a rhythm where he circled his hips upwards from the bed while moving Lahar along him. Inside her body she was just as hot as he remembered, searing and _wet_ , fluttering muscles locking and dragging the flesh over his member with each grinding movement. Zevran had to control his breathing, had to clench his eyes shut, to concentrate on the press of breasts to the planes of his chest, the softness of Lahar's belly rubbing against his. He had to block it and enjoy it at the same time. His orgasm wanted to break free, but he refused, taking the pleasure and holding it at arm’s length; this was in direct opposition to the way he was holding Lahar close, one of his arms having snaked up the length of her spine, so he could cup her head. Fingers tangled in her long sable hair, bringing her panting mouth close to his face, so that when he turned his head towards her, he could thrust his tongue between her lips. Groaning, he fell into the delicious sensation of the tongue against his, her body pliant and wet all over him, driving him mad. 

And still, he kept to a slow pace. 

At a particularly intense ripple of bliss that traveled from the tip of his cock and the surrounding tissue all the way to the base of his spine, shooting from there to his toes and skull, he whimpered, ending the kiss. In his ear, Lahar was mumbling incoherent, incomplete things, while rubbing her face against his throat and jaw. Lips latched onto his earlobe, and Zevran grunted, automatically tilting his head so Lahar could reach more of his delicate ear. Mouth opening in a soundless cry, Zevran had to gain a stranglehold on his impending release. Again, he shoved it to the back of his mind, his breath fighting to pick up speed. 

A muted keen shot through his head, Lahar trembling in his arms, and still – onwards Zevran strove. _She wants my touch to hold her to the here and now? Yes, I shall give that to her, Yes, I will make her stay, right here,_ was his mantra, ringing in his mind, at the forefront of all thought. However, his needy body and its demands would not be refused, and neither would Lahar, for as he began to raise her off of him so he could withdraw, teeth sank into the shell of over sensitive cartilage, demanding he continue. It was too much, and with a broken, hoarse groan, Zevran bucked upwards, yanking Lahar's hips to his, hands locked tight on the roundness of her body, and spilled deep in her sheath in pulsing glory.

Muscles going lax, the Crow flopped back entirely on the bed, limbs filled with warmth. “Ah, _mi cielo_ , we cannot keep doing that.”

“Ehnn?” she struggled to raise her head and look at him, before laying back down on his chest.

Cupping her bottom and bucking up against her a little, he said, “I cannot continue releasing in you, as that is how babies come about.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “Wait – you do know that that is how they are made, yes?”

There was an annoyed grunt that he took for a 'yes'.

He let out a relieved breath. “Then good. But yes, we cannot keep doing that. Me getting you with child during the Blight is a very bad idea. Poor management of resources and all that, at the least.”

“Unmf,” she muttered. A minute wiggle of hips accompanied this.

“That and I do not think it would be wise from the standpoint of the fact that my parenting skills are nonexistent,” he continued. “So, from now on, we must always take precautions.”

 _Not only would I make a poor parent, and not only do we have the need to fight the Blight – but it would be most...unwise._ He kept that thought to himself. She need not know of what had been done to him, especially as he was not fully sure of what had happened to him during his _Culminacion_ , either. _Why worry her?_

“Talk mo', pleash,” she whispered into his chest, “'bout Ahnteevah.”

“Ah, you wish to hear more of Antiva? Hmm...” He hesitated, pondering what he should say of his homeland. “There is a garden near the apartment I shared with...two others.” He stumbled again. He had almost said ‘Rinna and Taliesen’, names which he tried to never say, as they brought so many memories up that he didn't wish to think on. “Near the apartment I shared with two of my fellow Crows, there was this garden. I do not readily recall who had funded its creation. It is not so important, as merchants and high-placed Guild members often do public works to beautify or otherwise improve Antiva. It is good public relations, as we all depend on the goodwill of the people, and the people depend on our protection. So, this garden...” Closing his eyes, Zevran recalled the details. “It was in two parts. One was a night garden with plants that came to life, perfuming the air when the moon was out. White moondrops, with their crimson centers, honey sweet and delicious smelling, sat side by side with violets that had tips that were almost white, while their middles were so dark a purple to be near black. Have you ever smelled violets or moondrops?”

Lahar shook her head, and he realized her motor functions were improving. Slowly, but improving. She would probably remain weak for days, but later, they could do something to strengthen her. Right now was about preventing Lahar from slipping back into that coma. Whatever she had been fighting there must have been terribly strong to have laid the mage so low for so long. 

Giving her a squeeze, he continued, “Perhaps one day you will be able to. I am certain violets grow here and not just in Antiva, but I do not know if moondrops would. They like the heat. Well, the night garden was arrayed in the shape of the crescent moon, with little stone benches, and statuary of butterflies and birds that hovered in such a way as to look like real creatures over the flowerbeds.” 

“Sounds... pretty,” she said clearly, with careful enunciation of each word.

In reply he smiled. “Yes, it is beautiful. It always reminded me of amethysts. I think a pendant of a cabochon amethyst would look lovely resting in the hollow of your throat,” he mused, stroking her hair. “I even know this jeweler who makes these wire wrapped pendants that makes the stone appear as though it is nestled in gossamer threads.”

“Never,” she said, taking a deep breath, “had...some...thing...like...that.”

“Ah, yes. All that you wear is practical and serves a function, yes?” This was a purely rhetorical question. “To be sure, it is a crime. All women deserve a little adornment that simply exists to showcase, and be shown in turn, for reasons of pure beauty.”

It was not simple flattery he gave Lahar. She was lovely, and a few simple pieces of jewelry or well cut clothes would do her some good. Her current mage robes were enticing, but the ones she had worn when he first looked upon her had swallowed her up. They were shapeless and plain, making her appear as nothing so much as a girl dressing in her mother's clothes. No, the young Warden could use a few soft touches to compliment her frame and face. There was a mixing of features to her face, her elvenness apparent if one knew she was an elf, but the sharpness that Zevran associated with being an elf had been softened without any of the broad features that a _shemlen_ would have.

Shifting so he could reach out and shutter the glow of the lantern that lit the _aravel_ , he picked up the thread of his conversation. “At night, in the spring and summer months, little fire bugs would dance over the sweet flowers, and it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Ti-ured?” Lips quested for his neck, kissing him lightly.

Twirling a strand of her sable hair around a finger, he tried to reassure her. “No. I am merely homesick, _mi diosa_.”

“Umnf.” A wiggling scoot moved her so she was up high enough to lay a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Make...most...of...here. Now.”

Sighing, Zevran tilted his head so his lips could quest for hers. Pulling away after several long moments of exploring her mouth, he rested his forehead against hers. “I do try, _hermosa pequeña mia_ , I do try.”

XXX

Bundling Lahar up, Zevran carried her down to sit beside the fire and held her between his legs, propped up against his chest. The others had given him strange looks for this, but they were ignored. His young Warden had been able to stand on her own for a few moments and was speaking properly now, but was still weak and frequently suffered bouts of hypothermia. Accepting the bowl of soup from Morrigan, Zevran scooped some up, holding the spoon to Lahar's mouth. This particular action gained him wide, startled looks from everyone. 

Except Lahar, that is, who was used to him feeding her in the privacy of their _aravel_. He had been relieved when she had only given him a funny look the first time, but after she had realized she couldn't hold a spoon properly, she had acquiesced readily to the Crow feeding her. She had spent the last several days regaining basic control over her body and was able to walk from the bed to the door with assistance. At one point, while she had been bathing with Leliana's help, Zevran had admonished the others not to tell their leader how long she had been in a coma. The Antivan worried that she would push herself too much, rushing off before her body was able to cope with the rigors of the road. Such a rash action would put her at undue risk and land them back at square one. Thankfully, they had all agreed with his logic. 

Even Wynne. _The nosy old cunt._

So now he had her out amongst the others, as he knew that the children of the tribe would be coming soon for their regular story time. These sessions were usually accompanied by each child working on small chore, like making rope or mending tents, with the help of himself, Wynne and Leliana. Zevran had found a certain peace to this once-familiar activity and also found gaping holes in the children's education about their people. The gaps were something Zevran could fill, if only partially, and much like the other tasks that each party member participated in, readying the clan for travel, were things they could do to earn their keep. 

He had no desire to use up the debt gained by freeing them of the curse on something so simple as hospitality and shelter. So, Alistair and the Sten helped repair _aravel’en_ , Leliana and he aided in the hunting, Wynne and Morrigan made poultices, and everyone added muscle where it was needed, acting as though they were part of the clan. This had earned them respect beyond the tolerance they had initially gained.

The time that the children would usually come came and went. Frowning, Zevran helped Lahar get comfortable beside the fire so he could go find out why the children had not come. It was unlike them, for normally they came racing over, Atathis at their head, carrying or hauling baskets of things to fill their little hands with as they listened to the stories he told.

Just as he was rising, Sarel came into view. He said, as politely as he could, “ _Lethallin_ Sarel, is there something you need?” 

“ _Elvehn'alas_ , I would speak with you,” it was terse, the Dalish's face a dark glower.

Spreading his hands, placating, Zevran maintained his easy stance, even though the insult made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. “And here I am. What is it you wish to speak on?”

“Y-you have been filling the children's minds with your poison,” he accused, stepping close to the Crow, as though he were trying to be intimidating. 

Tilting his head, Zevran looked at him quizzically. “I tell them the stories my clan's _el'dirthera_ told me, and I answer questions they put to me.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You take issue with this? It is each person's responsibility to teach all that they can to the next generations, so that what knowledge we have is not lost forever to the sands of time.”

“And what would you actually know of our history, flat ear? Were you trained to be the lorekeeper?” Sarel snapped, eyes narrowing as the scowl deepened on his face. “You come here, you kill our Keeper, then act as though you are part of our tribe, insulting Master Varathorn by using precious resources for your toy sticks. And now this – corrupting the fragile minds of our young ones! No more, I say!”

Knowing that anger on his own part, while justified at the slew of insults, would get him nowhere fast, he kept cool. “I know plenty. Keeper Harathan is respected in most of Antiva as a scholar of our history. I studied at her knee, along with that of _El'dirthera_ Kyrni, for years. I do not know how it is with your clan, _lethallin_ , but in mine we all learned several skills. Mine were in hunting, woodworking and lore.” Making sure to keep an open, friendly and slightly confused expression on his face, the Antivan smiled. “I was not so gifted as many others, but I took joy in what I could do, and now, I take even greater joy in helping our people with what I know. If this offends you, then I am sorry, but _Vir Tanadhal_ dictates that I contribute, giving aid where I can and when I can. It is not as if I have told the children to go off to cities and act as I have. They are free and shall remain so. That is the way of it.”

The older man snarled. “Then perhaps _you_ should take my place as lorekeeper, if you know so much!”

Going sly, the Crow sucked on his bottom lip, head tipping back to look high overhead as though in deep thought. “If the Keeper would have myself and my Bonded, then that does sound like it would be a splendid idea. It has been so long since I lived amongst my own kind. That would bring me a peace that cannot compare.” Rubbing his chin, he nodded, brows drawing down as if he were mulling over the possibilities. “I would need assistance, of course, and since you have been the one caring for the clan's education, it would naturally fall to you to be my first.”

“You...you...you....” Spluttering and stuttering, Sarel stared at him incredulously. “You _flat-eared_ , dirt eating, _shem_ worshiping, city elf! I would sooner die than let you take my place!”

Showing innocent confusion, Zevran cocked his head. “But did you not a moment ago say that I should?” Scratching behind his ear, he shifted his weight onto his left foot. “If you think it would help strengthen the clan, is it not your duty to do what you must? Why would you offer such a thing and then so quickly rescind it?”

“That is enough.” Lahar had drawn her small form up, the blanket he had wrapped her in tucked about her body. “I've no wish to see further posturing on either of your parts. _Hahren_ Sarel, if you take issue with someone providing assistance when they are more knowledgeable than yourself, then you should step down, for the sake of your people. It is only logical and responsible. Zevran, don't bait him further. Making a fool of someone is easy enough, you only have to let them do it to themselves. They need no helping hand from you.”

Sarel growled, arms crossed over his chest, staring him down. “You should muzzle your bitch.”

_Oh ho, those are fighting words!_

Fighting words required action, action he was only too happy to provide.

Zevran's hand whipped out, slamming into the other man's face, and bone crunched. The Dalish fell to the ground, hands flying up over his eye, and howled in pain. Some of the clan had seen the confrontation, and many were whispering amongst themselves, for good or ill. The bronze elf didn't much care. No one insulted a man's Bonded unless they were willing to back up such action with force. Sarel, soft Sarel who had probably never known how to do more than skin an animal, was too easy a target. 

Standing over the fallen elf, Zevran leaned toward him as he tucked his hands into opposite elbows. “You overstepped yourself, Sarel. That was most unwise. Do you not remember Galot, Irian, Thyas and Nasime, and their fates at my hands? You watched it, you saw it. Did you think you could simply say whatever you pleased with no retort?” He kicked a bit of dirt at the lorekeeper's face. “You call me ‘ _elvehn'alas_ ’ and ‘flat-ear’. You call me ‘ _shem_ worshipper’ and a slew of other insults. I take those things with a smile on my face. Your words mean nothing to me. It is sad to say that I am more Dalish than you will ever be. To me, you are as nothing but a screaming child, bawling in the face of a storm. I sting your pride by knowing more than you, and rather than being practical about it, you attack me. And when that attack falls flat, you aim for my wife.” 

He spit so that the wad of mucus and saliva landed beside Sarel. “Do you really think that makes you a man? Do you really think that she is so weak as to not be able to defend herself on her own? If I had not felled you, she would have frozen you where you stood and then blasted you with stone so you shattered. You forget any wisdom that is supposed to be inherent in your position.” Zevran deliberately turned his back. “You are as weak as any I have had the misfortune of seeing. And Sarel? Next time, do not stop the children from coming. They are not pawns or possessions, but the greatest treasure of our species.”

Walking away, Zevran went to Lahar, who had retained her feet probably by dint of her indomitable will alone. Alistair had been fingering the hilt of his sword casually, which made the Antivan smile. The big oaf had been ready to jump into any fray, even as the Wilds Witch by the soup pot had looked ready to shoot spells over Lahar's shoulders. Such comrades were valuable and a commodity that the Master Crow had very rarely had the chance of having, dependable and ready for action at the drop of a hat. Draping an arm around Lahar's small shoulders, he guided her back to the fire, assisting her in sitting once more, nodding in acknowledgement to the others. 

It was good to know that they could all work together, not only when there was a crisis, but in such day-to-day-foibles as well.

XXX

Lahar was grinding elfroot, marigolds and roses into a thick paste that would be dried, then boiled into a strong decoction for healing potions. He, on the other hand, was making poison. They were sitting companionably on the steps of their _aravel_ , working in tandem, and he felt that now was perhaps a good time to ask her some questions.

“How is your head, _bonita_? Do you still have any pain?” he asked, watching her from the corner of his eye.

She pursed her lips, digging into the small basket of fresh-picked plants. “I'm fine. There's still some pain, but not as bad as when I first woke up.”

Wishing his hands weren't covered in beeswax to keep the skin from absorbing any of the mainly deadly resins that came from his crafting, he offered, “Ah, then I shall give you another massage once I am done with my work.”

“Oh blood, Zev, I am fine you know,” she protested mildly, her elbow coming out to nudge him lightly. “You don't need to baby me so much. As much as I appreciate it, I'm not an invalid.”

 _Actually, you are my dear,_ he thought, however, he was smart enough to not tell her that. Lahar had rapidly regained strength, but Zevran was not satisfied. There would soon be many times on the road when she would be required to draw on great forces that would burn her out if she did not have enough reserves to pull on, and he worried that she might fall even still. So he did his best to build her endurance quickly, while remembering to stuff her full of food at any given point. The body needed fuel to build muscle, and muscle aided in endurance. His classes in anatomy, as well as personal experience, told him this in detail. Each day, he measured her with his eyes and hands, touching her in the mornings and evenings, feeling her fill out and testing how the muscle she did have became more toned. 

_And she did say that having a higher stamina would make it easier for her to cast,_ he mused, smiling as she paused in her chore to sip at some halla milk and nibble a bit of cheese without him having to tell her to.

“Hmmn, yes, but you should store up as much as you can, for will we not be under much pressure in the not-so-distant future? Later, we will not be able to go slow to compensate for any weakness we may have.” He leaned over so he could nuzzle her temple. “So we must all become as strong as we can, while we have the luxury, yes?”

His mage snorted indelicately. “That sounds much more like a royal plural rather than a reference to all of us, but I suppose I understand what you mean.”

“Hmm. So, since your head is no longer bothering you so much, have you given any thought as to what caused your...illness?” he asked, returning to watch what he was doing – it wouldn't do to miscalculate the amounts or to nick himself.

Lahar shrugged a shoulder. “Do you remember that spirit gem?”

Frowning, Zevran nodded. “Yes. We had judged it to be harmless. You even said that the spirit was friendly. Were you fooled or some such?”

The Warden was quiet, thinking a moment before speaking. “No. The spirit was friendly. Quite mad and desperate for release, yes, but friendly. Kind, even. The memories though, they...tried to overwhelm me. Sometimes they still struggle to come to the surface.”

He arched an eyebrow, curious. “Memories? What sorts of memories?”

“Ones to teach me, I think, amongst other things.” Setting her work aside for the moment, she drained off the rest of her halla milk, then turned on the step to face him more, holding a piece of cheese up to his lips. “There is...new knowledge in me now. I am wary of testing it yet, but I probably should do so while in a secure setting.”

“Oh?” Chewing thoughtfully, he watched her carefully, measuring.

 _Could it be blood magic that she learned? Maker, please, if you have any kindness to you, please spare her that._ He had seen how blood magic corrupted the Guild, how it had affected the very practices that the Crows employed when healing and “improving” upon their members. No, Zevran could see some benefits to it, but as a general thing, he did not like blood magic at all. Also, those of their number would not appreciate their leader learning such dark arts. However, Zevran knew that the Tevinters had learned their first spells of blood magic not from their Dragon gods or demons, but from the ancient elves of Arlathan. It was a dark and horrible secret that few knew, outside of a select number of Dalish clans who had searched the ancient ruins deep in Arlathan's jungle.

Curling her hand as though she were holding something in it, she said, “My palms itch sometimes, and I look at your blades. I hunger to feel them in my hands. They seem so...familiar.” Her gaze turned inwards. “I can recall the weight of a hilt in each hand. The haft of a spear. The muscles in my back tense, bunch up, wanting to move in ways that I feel like I once knew. It is like whispers and body memory.”

That brought up an interesting set of ideas. "Hmm...I wonder what it is, exactly, that you do recall. If you saw me do it, would you recognize it?"

Lahar cocked her head, cutting off bits of cheese and offering him some. “I don't see how that would work. I mean, I don't know anything about that sort of skill.”

“My dear, I am proficient in many, many things.” Parting his lips, he accepted the soft, yogurty morsel into his mouth. “You say you recognize the hilt of a sword, that you crave it. Well, as an experiment,” he suggested, jerking his chin toward the interior of their _aravel_ , “why not go and bring my baldrics out here?”

With economical movements, Zevran put away the more potent weapons of his trade while Lahar quickly returned with his leather harness. Fishing out a cloth, he removed the layer of beeswax. Taking the proffered sheathed weapons from her, Zevran unhooked one of the sheathed blades, presenting her with the hilt. She eyed it and, at his nod, cautiously wrapped her hand around it, pulling the weapon out smoothly. _Hmm, interesting._ Unsheathing a weapon so easily was something that had to be learned. Taking a weapon from its sheath was not as easy as it looked to the inexperienced. He had seen pretenders who had tried the very same motion, be surprised by the strange distribution of weight, fumble and cut themselves. No, Lahar's movement was sure, confident and rather experienced.

“It's heavy.” Brow furrowing, she scowled down at the greened metal. “I wasn't expecting it to be like this.” 

However she still held it in one hand, and Zevran set down his baldric and the dagger it still held. “Let me see your grip.”

She was correct, his sword really was too heavy for her. The tendons in her forearm and wrist were flexed tight and hard, but she held it steady. Examining how her fingers were wrapped around the hilt, he found that he didn't have to correct her grip at all. _Amazing, I have never seen such a thing,_ he thought, and it really, truly was. 

The basics of sword fighting were balance and grip, and sheathing and unsheathing weapons. Crows had to go through hours of repetitive motions to gain that sort of agility with a weapon as a standard matter of course in their training. And here Lahar was, whom he knew had never drawn a sword in her life or held one, simply standing there, holding the blade out easily, other than the strain of weight.

“I don't think I could use this in a fight,” she said, shaking her head in annoyance. “It's just too big.”

Removing the weapon from her hand, he tutted. “Tchk, that is a shame, as you are right, you do know how to hold this. People think it is easy. I assure you, without training, it is not.” Putting away the sword, he sighed. “We do not have the time to strengthen your muscles enough for you to be able to use one in anything other than the most basic fashion or in an extreme emergency. However, a nice dagger, on the other hand would work well.” Motioning for her to remain behind, he said, “I have something that may suit you.”

Hopping the three steps to the little porch of the _aravel_ , Zevran went and dug in one of the cubbies, until he found what he had been looking for. The long, wicked dagger that was practically a short sword had been a piece of loot from their fight with the darkspawn during their first trek through the forest. Testing the edge of the swooping blade, he nodded in satisfaction. 

Returning to his lady mage, he held the new, much lighter weapon out to her, pommel first. “Try this.”

As soon as her hand wrapped around the hilt, her eyes lit up. “I know this! This...this feels... _right_!”

Stepping up behind her, Zevran ran his hands over her back, shoulders, hips and thighs. “Hmm...”

“Zev, what precisely are you doing?” she asked, casting a startled look at him over her shoulder.

Tipping his head back, he threw her a smirk. “Checking your balance.” Squatting, he squeezed each of her calves. “Excellent.” 

With no warning, he gave a little push on her hips. The mage took a step forward, turning around, the dagger flashing out and down. Her move was not entirely expected, but Zevran grabbed her wrist, pulling her in close, only to have to dodge a second strike. Lahar twisted her arm free of his grip, dancing back several paces, holding the dagger out.

She stopped, surprise on her face, looking from him to the weapon and back. “Why did you push me?”

“I would have caught you if you stumbled.” Shrugging, Zevran was unapologetic. “I merely wished to see what sort of muscle memory you had.” Nodding at the dagger, he told her, “That is called a _dar'misu_. I have seen few of them of good quality in my life, but Arainai used to carry one that had been passed down for several generations.” Taking her hand, he pointed to the way the blade was shaped. “This cuts through the air quickly, and the way it hooks at the base makes it easier to catch an opponent’s blade on yours, to disarm them.”

Lahar was standing close, her head barely coming to his shoulder, staring down at the _dar'misu_ with an intensity that was almost alluring. “It's beautiful. And... _very_ familiar, Zevran. I...know this knife, not...not this knife in specific, but...this knife in...style.”

Taking the dagger from her, he mused aloud. “Those ruins were old, yes, and this kind of weapon has been with our species for thousands of years. The way it is made complements how our bodies move, their shape, our musculature. Such a thing as this would probably have been well known to that spirit.”

“And now me,” she added, relinquishing the blade with a shiver. 

“We shall have to find a sheath for it, and then you will begin carrying this with you everywhere you go, _mi cielo_ , do you understand?” Cupping her chin, Zevran forced her to tear her gaze from the delicate dagger. 

Pale pink lips pursed, then relaxed, her icy eyes softening. “Yes.”

Dipping to press his mouth to her forehead – he wanted her used to his touch, wanted her to never think twice about why he was touching her, to never even consider flinching away – he mumbled, “ _Perfecto, mi diosa_.” Stroking her cheek with the backs of his knuckles, he continued, “Now, this is obviously not to be a main weapon for you. And did you not say you think you know the feeling of a spear?”

Lahar nodded readily enough, but was still uncertain. “I think I do, except my hands don’t reach for it the same. They ache for the feeling of wire wrapped leather, rather than wood.” With a sharp shake of her head, her eyes clenched shut. “I can't _see_ it the same way I can the swords and daggers. It's...just out of reach.”

“Ah, now that would be why I asked you if I were to show you something, would you recognize it.” He waved his hand at her dismissively. “Ah-ah, now it is rhetorical. I am sure now that you _would_ recognize some of what I shall show you, but first, I must go to Varathorn and gain the required tools.”

Quickly, Zevran moved through the camp, gaining two short staves, and made his way back to Lahar, who had been doing some of the katas from _Baile de Muerte_. Taking the time to watch her move through them, he found that there was no longer a pang of disquiet at her obvious knowledge. _Curious that the Crow who raised her did not teach her some of the other techniques for open-hand combat. Surely it would have been wiser to teach her of those than of **Baile** , and it would not have repercussions the same way. True **Baile** contains many mixed elements of **Cuerpo Volante** , but there are too many **Muerte Toca** that are secret._ But that was probably the point. Lahar may not be highly trained in _Baile_ but she _did_ know enough of the disabling strikes that could kill a man, or at least paralyze.

“Here, take this. Sit down, _mi vida_ ,” he instructed, waving the end of one staff at the steps. “I shall show you some basic moves first. You tell me if they seem familiar to you.”

Doing as she was instructed, clutching the willow staff he had handed her, Lahar's gaze was sharp. Zevran felt as though he were being weighed, measured and tested, as though their time together had been swept away, forcing them to start anew. That was not true, he knew, but it made him tense. His mage was merely focusing, ready to absorb anything he showed her. It was just that the peculiar expression she wore was something she usually reserved for adversaries, not friends. Removing his tunic and vest, he tossed them to rest beside her, purely for logical reasons, of course. She should be able to see how muscles were supposed to move when going through these sequences.

Purely logical, and not to show off.

At all.

There came a point in his practice when he realized that he had an audience, a large, the Qun’ari audience. Finishing a last flip of the staff, Zevran reached out with the tip of his weapon, wresting the second one from Lahar's grasp. The second staff flew towards the kossith, who merely caught it, no matter that their mutual leader was cursing in a string of surprise. She had been sitting, raptly watching him, and he had noticed the recognition in her eyes, but she had not felt ready, he supposed, to try her hand at such endeavors.

The Sten and he shared a look, a nod, and a quick bow. 

Then the real challenge began.

Elf and kossith circled slowly, with Zevran holding his weapon horizontally in his hands, in front of his chest, while the Sten carried his like a spear. _Reach, strength, mass – advantages all,_ he thought, making a quick assessment. _Speed, even, to be sure, but it is unlikely he is as fast as I._ Patience settled around him like a cloak. _The first blow in this sort of combat is landed without ever striking with your weapon._ The mind was the true weapon, not the body, not the blade or staff or bow. He would drive the Sten to attack first physically, which would allow him to test the warrior's skill without having to reveal any of his own.

When Zevran refused to make any movements other than to circle and mirror the kossith's, until Sten growled. “ _Pashaara_!”

Inside, the Antivan smiled. He knew the Qun’ari was impatient. Zevran's waiting was rewarded, for a short jab with the large man's staff was sent towards the elf's feet. Twisting the stave in his hands, he knocked away the tip, merely defending for now. Air played with the sweat dampened hair at the base of his neck, making it cling and blow. Like the breeze itself, the bronze Crow began to sway slowly from foot to foot, ready to slip into a glide, always knocking aside the Sten's careful probing. He spied several openings the big man left, but suspected they were there on purpose, so he ignored them.

Sweat beaded and began to slither down his spine, tickling, providing a reminder that it had been years since he had truly used a staff, at least against a remotely challenging partner. Licking some of the salt from his upper lip, the Crow finally spun on one foot, twirling his staff from hip height to overhead, catching the Qun’ari's weapon in the rapid flurry, forcing the Sten to overcompensate just enough for him to suddenly jerk the tip of his staff upwards and into the warrior's knee the Sten stumbled, and Zevran pressed his advantage, dancing forward to whip the Qun’ari's legs from under him.

As the Qun’ari fell, Zevran kicked while back-flipping, catching the Sten in the jaw. The impact was enough to make his foot smart, but was easily ignored even as he landed in a crouch. Quickly, he lunged from his position to wrest the big man's staff from him, and thrust the end of his own staff into the thick throat.

“ _Pashaara_ , you have won,” with a voice of gravel and rock, the kossith surrendered.

Straightening, Zevran bowed low. “It was a good match, and glad I am of the challenge, my large friend.” As the Sten stood, the Antivan asked the question that the entire bout begged. “But I am curious, where did you learn to use a staff like that?”

“Seheron,” he muttered, and Zevran expected that to be the only answer he received. “The young students who enter the more rebellious stages of life are taught the use of staves to focus the mind.”

Brows arching on his forehead at the unusually verbose reply, Zevran responded, “It does require much focus, sometimes more than a sword. One must keep opponents at different distances, and it is easy for one's hands to be struck. Your people are wise to use such tools.”

The Qun’ari's violet eyes darkened. “They are.”

Zevran turned to check Lahar and her expression. When he caught it, he had to smile. The colour in her cheeks was high, and her lips had become rosier than usual. _Normally I have to kiss her for some time to get that look, hmmm._ He was pleased that the “view,” as it were, had done something for his mage. 

Going over to her, he leaned casually against the _aravel's_ rails. “So, _amante_ , how much of that seemed to be something you knew?”

Lahar held out a waterskin for him, which he accepted gladly. “All of it. It's...weird.”

“Hmn, and do you think you can do any of it?” he asked, squeezing the skin so water squirted over his face and neck, needing to cool down before taking a drink. They had water aplenty, so he didn't worry for the waste. “We could try a few of the slower maneuvers now if you wish it.”

XXX  
S is for Spanish/Antivan, L is for Lahar’s slurred speech, E is for elvish, Q is for Qun’ari  
Mi cielo, S - My sky  
Mi vida, S - my life  
'ehvrhan, L - Zevran  
Mi diosa, S - My goddess  
Mo', L - More  
Schkinnn, L - Skin  
Preciosa, S - Precious  
'Esh, L - Yes  
Plesh, gu Wun, L - Please, go Wynne  
m'Feen, Wun, L - Am fine, Wynne  
Schkinn, plez, Tooch, ankur, meh, L - Skin, please. Touch - anchor me  
Encantadora, S - Enchantress/enchanting  
por favor, nunca mas, S - please, no more  
Pequeña, S - little one  
Need anchoor, to here, Want yoo tooch. Pleesh. L - Need anchor, to here. Want your touch. Please.  
Talk mo', pleash, 'bout Ahnteevah, L - Talk more, please, about Antiva  
Ti-urd?, L - Tired?  
hermosa pequeña mia, S - my handsome/pretty little girl/one  
Lethallin, E - cousin  
Elvehn'alas, E - dirt elf  
El'dirthera, E - our words/our speaker, lorekeeper  
Vir Tanadhal, E - way of three trees, code of ethics  
Hahren, E - elder  
Bonita, S - Beautiful/pretty  
Perfecto, S - perfect/very good  
Baile de Muerte, S - Dance of death/Death dance, a martial art  
Cuerpo Volante, S - Flying Body, also a martial art  
Muerte Toca, S - death touch, concept in the Antivan martial arts  
Pashaara, Q - enough  
Amante, S - lover


	12. Chapter 12

XXX  
Murder 11  
XXX

Zevran was doing a final check of his gear from Varathorn, as tomorrow they would be leaving after one last, good night’s sleep. _Ah, then it is open road, privation, and battle once more._ He sorted through some of the more basic components for poison. _Best to be prepared, no? Hmmn, perhaps I should teach Lahar how to throw a few grenades, at the least, though..._ he mused, thinking on how best to ensure that even if she ran out of mana during a fight, she would still be able to stay from the bulk of the fracas. Yes, she was coming along nicely – so well that it was actually spooky – in her ability to use a staff. Next he would have to focus on expanding her ability in _Baile_ or the subsets of _Cuerpo Volante_ that mixed well with weapons. 

Interrupting his thoughts, staring almost as intensely as he was capable of, Keeper Lanaya joined him as he leaned over the table of goods. “ _Lethallin_ , do you have a moment?”

No, actually he didn't. Well, he did, but he knew that sort of hungry look. He watched her from the corner of his eye. _It is not lust, no, nothing so simple as lust. A need, of body and mind. Bah, I have no wish to deal with this._

Even so, he raised his head from his work, bestowing a tight smile. “Of course, Keeper Lanaya.”

“I would very much like to speak with you,” she turned so she could rest her hips against the work table, too close to be merely friendly, crossing her arms under her bosom, so that her assets would push up. 

Under some circumstances, he would appreciate the effort. Lanaya wasn't unattractive at all, merely...too Dalish for his tastes. He had lost the desire for such years ago, knowing as he did his status amongst them. _I have given up such rights, nor do I wish to regain them._ However, he knew that a woman – anyone really – who had that particular look in her eye would not be easily dissuaded.

“Ah, I was under the impression we were speaking, _Enansal'asha_ ,” he said, making a show of selecting a wax paper square and sniffing the contents. “But as some of my brethren used to say to tease _shems_ , 'I am all ears'.”

An honest laugh welled up in the young woman. _Then again, she may not be so young, spending so much time with the Dalish can change anyone, for good or ill_. “That's clever! I'll have to remember it.” She turned serious quickly. “Then, I must ask if I may speak plainly.”

Separating components out, he added an extra mortar and pestle. Zevran disliked the fact that he and Lahar had been making poisons and potions in the same container. “As you wish, _Enansal'asha_. Plain speaking is rare these days, especially amongst our kind.” 

“I know why you Bonded with Lahar,” she began, stating plainly as she had said she would. “Your number were in a bad situation, and...with things the way they were, you had no recourse but to do so.”

Grunting, he nodded. “And here I thought you would not dance around the subject you wish to speak on.” Waving his hand, “But, yes, my hand was forced. What of that has to do with whatever you want from me?”

“You are Dalish.” Lanaya braced her hands behind her, and her short robe flashed what should have been a tantalizing bit of thigh, yet wasn't. “But you are also city-wise. I take it you know that the belief that the ritual unites two souls wholly is not entirely...true.”

Sighing, Zevran turned to face her, nodding. “Yes. In Antiva there are many who...enjoy the effects of the herbs for leisure. Again, come to the point.”

“My tribe, it is dying, this you know, and there are no suitable males amongst my group who have your inborn talents,” pursing her full lips, Lanaya clearly didn't want to be rushed even as she was striving for the aforementioned plain speaking. 

“My dear, I am already Bonded,” he reminded her, measuring her coolly. “I have no wish to dissolve my relationship and stay here, flattered as I am for your consideration.”

She shook her head, aggravated, “No. I would not request you stay.”

“Then what is it you wish of me, my dear woman? Hmmn? You say there are no...”

“I wish for a child,” she replied, interrupting him. The admission cost her, he could see that, as she was a proud woman. This did not stop her from continuing, however. “You are a ranger of abilities not heard of in this clan in generations. You are intelligent and a quick study of anything you put your hand to. You are an artist and a warrior, a philosopher and teacher. All of these traits are things that can be passed down. Even if only one or two of your talents are carried through your seed, it is...it would be a gift and a chance for revitalization.”

That, he wasn't entirely expecting. Rubbing the side of his nose, the Antivan frowned. “I cannot give you what you so desire.”

“Why not?” Exasperation was clear in every inch of her bearing. “I ask no commitment. I ask for nothing more than a few minutes of pleasure that could result in something immensely precious for my, _our_ people.”

“And I say again, I cannot give that to you.” Gritting his teeth, Zevran reiterated, “I am not able to do this thing, for more reasons than you can understand.”

“You're sterile?” A flicker of surprise caused her to blurt out in blunt tactlessness. 

Chuckling, he seized upon that explanation. “As good as, yes.” Understanding what drove the Keeper to such a request, though, made him sympathetic. “However, there are other solutions if you would hear them.”

She nodded tentatively. “If they will result in some improvement for my clan, I will do just about anything.”

“In Antiva, my...clan...” he paused, knowing he could not truly refer to his mother's clan as being his, “has many who are knowledgeable, from craftsmen to lorekeepers. We even have several who have mage Talent, last I saw them. You could send some scouts via Denerim or Amaranthine. Send ones who are able to deal with _shemlen_ , or are at least polite enough to hold their tongues no matter how distasteful they find city-dwellers. They should make for Antiva City. There, in some of the outermost markets, are usually Dalish who are there for trade. Keeper Harathan is well known, and there are always some of my tribe's number there.” Taking a deep breath, the bronze elf forged on. “Send them with messages, requests for aid. Meanwhile during the scouts’ trek, your clan should go north, to the outskirts of Amaranthine. I am sure there are other Dalish there, as well, for there are many forests. Even there, you would find help, to be sure.”

“That will...take much time,” Lanaya frowned at him.

Smiling tightly, Zevran returned to his work, needing to keep his hands busy. “Keeper Harathan's duty is to ensure that as many of us have knowledge of ourselves and our history as possible. Time it may take, but it is time that must be made for such.”

“So, I shall send a message, saying that Arainai's...”

Snapping, Zevran slammed his hand on the table in a sudden fit of irritation. “No! You shall make no mention of me!”

Startled the Keeper jerked away. “Pardon? Why not?”

Licking his lips, the Crow glowered at her. “That is not your business.”

“ _Uhalamlin_.” Her eyes were wide. “You are... _uhalamlin_ aren't you?”

“Kin killer, one who is alone in blood.” Hands balling into fists at his sides, Zevran growled out the dreaded thing he had not said to any. “I am forsworn.”

“What...how? _Why_?” Covering her mouth, Lanaya looked as if she wished to creep away.

He bared his teeth. “As I said, it is none of your business.” The Crow stared her down. “Now you know, and now you know why you should not mention me or my existence.”

“Your clan...they would...they would _kill_ us all for harbouring you!” she gasped, but there was no anger in her that he could see.

That was shocking.

“Unless, of course, you brought proof you had killed me. An ear perhaps?” Reaching up, he flicked his ear. “Or maybe my hands,” he said, holding them out. “Hands that gutted my aunt Arainai, their finest ranger, who taught me all it meant to be Dalish. To be certain, they would much rather have my head.” Gathering up what he had selected from Varathorn's supplies, he continued, “It is good we leave on the morrow then, yes? Or will you drive us out, now that you are aware of what vipers you have had so near to hand?”

Lanaya closed her eyes, shaking her head. “I do not know you fully, Zevran Arainai, but I will not betray one who has freed my clan, one who has...given freely of information and methods to regain our ways. No. You may stay, and you may return so long as I am Keeper.” He was surprised when she reached out, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Such a thing is atonement enough in my eyes.”

His lips thinned into a flat line. “Then, if I were you, I would speak to Sarel, so he is informed that he should keep a closer watch on his tongue. As for the others, they are unlikely to know much, other than my appearance and given name. No one would hold you or yours responsible for my presence.” He ducked a quick bow of respect. “Keep such a compassionate and understanding attitude, and you will be a most wise _Enansal'asha_ , and a good Keeper.”

XXX

He awoke by inches to the smell of Lahar – that peculiar perfume of ice, ozone, amber, roses and herbs – as well as of himself hanging in the air, a heavy, comforting thing. Today they would be leaving the Dalish, and today, he would be leaving behind the game of playing at still being Dalish. Skills and thoughts like that were best kept in locked boxes, deep inside where they could not sting. Zevran would be grateful for that. 

Lahar was tucked into him, her cheek on his chest, an arm thrown over his waist, wearing – as usual – one of his shirts. The arm he had curled around her shoulders tugged her closer, and the hand belonging to that appendage stroked the back of her head, and the side of her cheek. He wondered if she would care that he was _uhalamlin_. Probably not, the mage had no real understanding of other cultures, what with her ability with people as basic as it was. Yes, she was persuasive, she got things done, but Zevran didn't think she much cared one way or another what people did, so long as it didn't get in the way of her goals. 

Sighing, he began the process of waking her up. This was their last leisurely morning, and he wanted to enjoy it. Reaching under the blankets, Zevran pulled one of her legs over his, tucking his head down so he could kiss her forehead. This garnered him the expected snuffle, as well as a wiggle. Slipping his hand under the hem of his tunic, the elf ran light fingers over the curve of the underside of her bum - to that Lahar immediately squeaked, squirming away. 

“Ah, you are awake _mi cielo_.” He chuckled at her as he continued stroking her lightly, curling his fingers around to her inner thigh. “Do not deny it. Zevran is wise to your ways, sleepy one.”

Lahar's face scrunched before she rubbed it over his chest, her always-cold nose a hard ridge against his pectoral. “Nooo...I'm _warm_ , the bed is comfortable, and you smell good. I don't want to. It can't be morning yet, I protest!”

Zevran laughed outright, rolling them both over so he could hover above her. “Ah, but I have something for you.”

Of late, Lahar would verge on downright playful in the mornings, a side of lightheartedness that he was glad to see. She was so serious amongst the others, overly adult for one so young. So, these times when she relaxed with him like this, Zevran found himself reveling in. 

She groused, even as her hips arched up to his. “It's the morning, of course you have something for me. Is it even normal to want it that much, or is it a man thing?”

He dipped down to nip at her neck. “Ah, an old adage of the Crows comes to mind.”

“Umf, and what's that?” A single eye popped open enough to squint at him.

“'Waste not, want not.' It would be a waste not to utilize this, hmn?” He traced the swirling ink on her throat with his thumb. “But, if you do not wish to receive, then all you must do is say so, _mi vida,_ as I am well equipped with two hands.”

Hands slid up his arms to his shoulders, curling into his sleep-tousled hair, probably making it stand up in clumps. “But you like it.”

Both brows arched high on his forehead. “And you do not?”

“It's...not that.” 

At least it wasn't a denial. 

He leaned in to lick her bottom lip. “Explain.”

“I just... You touch me nicely, Zevran, I like that part, but, it is...” She looked away, staring at the wall to what was soon to no longer be their _aravel_. “It is intimidating. Frightening, sometimes. When...a man would touch me before...it hurt.”

He relaxed so he could rest his weight atop her. “Have I ever hurt you, _mi diosa_?”

She shook her head adamantly. “No, but you are demanding. Twice a day? More if you can get me alone? You’re...intense. Even when you're gentle with me, there's this...intensity. This...demand. Sometimes I feel like I _can't_ say no. Like, like it would be wrong to or...or something like that.” Lahar huffed. “I'm not saying it right, I don't know how to.”

“Ah, it is not my intention to make you feel thus.” Zevran lowered his voice, purring in that way he knew would make a woman – or man – shiver. “It is merely that when I see you, when I hold you, I feel a flash of desire. Like food and rest, there may be times when I shall have to do without. So, I would like to store up, as it were.”

“Times like when I was in the coma?” The eternal scent of blizzard on her breath, her fingers traveled over his jaw and cheeks. “How long was I really out?”

Shaking his head, Zevran didn't answer, only licking her lips open before sinking the muscle into her mouth. Under him she moaned, meeting him partway. That much he knew he could take pride in, for his elven lass had given up the fight long since in enjoying this at least. In fact, she would sometimes, upon entering their _aravel_ , shyly grab his hand before stepping into him so she could lean up and press her lips to his, entirely on her own. He still had yet to convince her that sleeping nude was more comfortable than wearing some dirty shirt of his. Especially since she tended to ignore his clean ones, as if she had some desire to roll around in sweaty linen or wool. Lahar reminded him somewhat of a cat in such behaviour, and it was as disturbing as it was adorable. So long as the shirt was merely sweaty or dusty rather than bloody, Lahar would snatch it from his hands as soon as he had removed it and yank it over her head. 

When the kiss ended Zevran said, “You were out as long as you needed to be, and you took as long as you needed to, to recover. No one will begrudge you that, and if they attempt it, then I shall deal with them. You are no good to anyone if you are not at your peak of performance as long as possible.”

With a tiny sigh, Lahar conceded. “I suspect I wouldn't really like the answer anyway, not that you've ever spared me disagreeable facts if you felt it was needed.”

“Hmn, now, back to the earlier matter, I have something for you that is long, hard and will never fail you.” He distracted her with his tongue along her ear. “Tell me, do you want it?”

Lahar arched, her legs and arms wrapping around him. “Yes.”

“Good.” Levering himself up and away, he snickered at the young Warden's vociferous protests. Slipping from the bed, Zevran snagged the staff he had created for her, the leather case it was in having masked what it was. Returning to her with it, he laid it across her palms. “From now on, use this, rather than those useless hunks of wood or bone that do nothing but boost your powers somewhat.”

She frowned at him curiously, sitting up and opening the case, withdrawing the staff, her mouth making a tiny 'o'. “It's...beautiful.”

Reaching over, he tapped the center of the staff. “There is even a groove for a rune. That way, you do not have to cast a weapon spell upon it for it to be effective against certain enemies.”

To his surprise, Lahar set aside the weapon quickly and turned to him, wrapping her arms about him forcefully and going to her knees. She practically crawled over him, her lips pressing all over his face. Zevran was not one to complain at having an armful of exuberant woman. He groaned when her mouth found one of his ears, and she set about giving it as much attention as he so often gave hers. She had never done this before, never going beyond a few licks or a kiss or two, as she was still obviously unsure of the entire interplay between lovers. Now his lass was making up for that ten times over, the wet slide of cool tongue making him shiver. 

He shuddered when she finally obliged, unable to help himself. _Aie, you are a woman of passion, **amante** when you finally release yourself of all your confines._ Now if only he could request her mouth elsewhere on his body...but an exploration like that could wait, for right now he was well content with the slow roll of her hips over his, and the wet sounds echoing in his ear. His eyes rolled back in his head. _Only another elf would understand, truly. Aie, I do not know how humans can do without this...._ It was like tickling sparks of intense sensation sent bolts over his flesh, making his blood go afire and pool heavily between his legs. 

He was going mad with this play, but he was going to be dammed if he pushed Lahar at all. As she had said, he did tend to be a little demanding, at least to her way of thinking, so he refused to. However, she was driving him insane, and he could feel how wet she was as she rocked against him ceaselessly.

He was brought from his fog by moist lips whispering against his ear. “Touch, touch, touch, touchtouchtouchtouch....” It was a tiny whimper, the only break in the repeated word, “Please, _touchtouchtouchtouch_...want to touch you, pleaseplease, touchtouchtouch!”

Arching, Zevran moaned. “Mmnnoh, wha-what?

“Want to touch you.” Such a small whine, it was high pitched and pitiful, accompanied as it was with grinding. “P-please?”

His answer came out as a hiss, his hands clenching spasmodically on her hips. “ _Yess_....”

Zevran refused to guide her, no matter that he was no longer used to being the center of such drawn out foreplay. He was a Crow; he could withstand torture and turn it into pleasure. He could withstand pleasure that was so good that it was a torture in and of itself. And if he kept telling himself that, maybe some point soon he might believe it. 

“I can...you want me to? Please, may I?” Rocking back so she was sitting, her hands hovered over his chest.

“Lahar, _amante,_ I am _dying_ without your hands on me.” His tight throat made the words come out unbelievably hoarse. “Touch me anywhere, everywhere, however. I do not care, just... _do it_.”

There was still a momentary hesitation, and Zevran feared he might actually have to take over. However, just as his body was snapping and snarling in need, Lahar touched him. Palms ran over the breadth of his shoulders, down his chest to his stomach. Again, there was hesitation, but it too passed. Lahar swallowed once, rising up to her knees, balancing her weight on one hand that she pressed to his shoulder, the other going to his manhood. The very sight of her poised to impale herself on him – her hair wild, her skin flushed, lips swollen, thighs clearly moist, his shirt rucked up around her waist – came close to being his undoing.

His lids hooded, but thankfully did not close, for he was sure he would scream in frustration if he were to lose the magic sight at this moment. Slowly – agonizingly so – Lahar slid down him, having some trouble at figuring out how to do this on her own, and then they were joined. _Finally!_ Zevran made a soundless cry at that, his body bowing up from the bed for a moment. There was something exquisite about a woman riding him. It gave him the opportunity to do more, to participate in ways that being atop did not. His hands were free to roam, and he could watch his cock slip in and out of her body, her firm breasts swaying gently with each motion, and the rapturous expression on her face. 

Tight rippling over his member, the sweat-slicked slip of flesh on flesh, soft yet muscular skin filling his hands as they flexed over Lahar's hips, was what his world spiraled down to. His bottom lip folded over his teeth when Lahar's smooth palms pressed to his pectorals, her mouth dropping open as she picked up speed, grinding against him hard. He was lodged deep, and Zevran arched his back and groaned. The Crow cupped a breast, his thumb circling the pale pink nipple until it tightened into a pebble. Growling at the heat building at the base of his cock behind where testicles and manhood met, he deepened his breathing, meeting each of Lahar's down thrusts with slow rocking. 

A whimper, needy and desperate, bubbled from Lahar's mouth. “Zev!”

Rumbling low in his throat, he kept one hand locked on his mage's hip, forcing her to continue as he ran his free hand down to her sex. Slipping his hand between them, he spread Lahar's inner lips wide, hooking his middle finger under his prick so that with every motion it was striking his Warden's walls perfectly, even as his thumb massaged and circled over her button. His breathing was ragged and the tightness on him was unbearably good, especially when Lahar sat up straight, her nails scraping down his chest to his stomach in the process, leaning back as she wailed, locking him inside her body. Clenching his jaw, Zevran continued to rock up against Lahar, easing her through her completion while denying his own. 

Panting and sagging over him, his Bonded's lips sought his own, moaning into his mouth, her breasts pressed to him, her hands moving to his hair. When he could hold out no longer, Zevran's hips snapped up and off the bed, his world going white, no matter that he had the barest presence of mind to yank Lahar off of his pulsing member so he could release far away from the mouth of her womb. 

In a tangled, sweaty heap they lay, chests heaving as they each sought to catch their breaths. Wrapping his arms around Lahar's back, Zevran turned his head enough so he could kiss her temple. There was a sleepy murmur of approval, and for the moment, he was extremely glad that he had purposefully woken her several hours before they would be forced to rise. He was no fool and thought that at least he would have been the one to instigate such physically demanding play. 

“Oof,” she murmured with a jaw-cracking yawn. “We have to get up now, don't we?”

Chuckling, Zevran rolled over with Lahar in his arms. “Not to worry, _amante_ , I planned on allowing us some time for play, then rest.”

“Sneaky.” She blinked owlishly at him before wiggling on the bed as he tugged their covers around them. 

“Ah, it is part of my charm, yes?” he asked, kissing her on the chin before slumping to his side.

XXX

The forest was quiet save for the sound of the elves in determined combat. Lahar spun gracefully, ducking out of the path of the flat of Zevran's blade, her staff whipping up in an arc behind her to block the attack coming in low on the other side, while lashing out with one foot, swinging in a hooked arch aiming for his hip. Lips quirked in a pleased smile before smoothing away, Zevran countered his Warden's attack with one of his own. In a quick flurry, the Crow made himself into a spinning circle of blades and kicks – flashy and effective – but slow enough for Lahar to counter him, which she did neatly, the end of her staff finding the opening he had purposefully left her. In reply he shoved her, as though to unbalance her. She stumbled – it _looked_ like she stumbled as her arms flung wide while she fell backward – but at the last moment, she planted her staff, her foot snapping up as she let her momentum carry her upward and over again, putting her on her feet and at a distance. The moonlight bathed her in silver and shadow as she turned to face him again, her feet skidding across the dew-slick grass.

“Good, good! Excellent, _mi niña_ ,” he praised her, sheathing his weapons. “You are improving in finding weaknesses and combining _Baile_ with what the spirit gave you.”

Lahar's nose crinkled. “It feels very strange, Zev. The first time, it was like someone else was...controlling me. But when you started showing me more, it...was more like I could feel hands _inside_ my hands. Guiding, rather than controlling.”

Zevran grabbed his discarded shirt, wiping the sweat from his chest while listening. “It is better not to rely upon the memories, I think, and instead you should use them to help you learn what to do. What if those memories fade, yes? For now, let them guide you, control you when there is no other choice...”

“I don't really mind having that thing in my head, Zevran.” Lahar leaned on her staff, face turned up towards the trees as if she were searching for unnamed stars. “It feels kind and warm. Whoever, _whatever_ that warrior-mage was, is gone, but is still in me. Not living, but content with this shadowed existence. I get the feeling like it says 'at least I am no longer alone'. Like an echo of a person. Nothing left but a handful of skills and a feeling of contentment.”

Curious, Zevran held out the waterskin to her. “Do you feel that way, _amante_ , having it in your head? Like...at least _you_ are not alone?”

She gave him a startled glance, then looked away. “Sometimes.”

Pressing the skin to her hand, he touched her cheek, rubbing his thumb over the high bone. “But you are not alone, _mi diosa_.”

“I'm not?” There was a rueful cast to her lips. “Alone, Zevran, is what I have been for the entirety of my life. It is like...you being a slave. It is part of how you define yourself. I define myself by being alone.” 

“And what of this unnamed man who raised you? Surely you will not claim that he left you alone in...the place you were raised.” Shaking his head, the elf frowned. She would make offhand comments about the place she was raised, and the man who raised her, but never put names to anything. Ever. It was so strangely secretive. “You speak too fondly of him for him to have done such a thing.”

Her full mouth tugged down in a frown as she took a perfunctory pull from the waterskin before passing it back to him. “He was under constraints and unable to do more than he did. It was not as though he could simply raise me as his own. The place I was kept was not conducive to him doing as he clearly wished. And so I was left alone, Zev.” She slung her staff over her shoulder in a graceful movement that slid the wood into the light harness she wore. “I put no names to things because names are power, Zevran. Never forget that.” She cast a clouded look his way. “I'll never be able to forget that. It's probably best you don't, either.”

Tugging his shirt on, Zevran gathered his weapons and trailed after his Warden. _Names have power? That is merely a fishwives' tale._ However, Lahar clearly believed in it. If Lahar believed in it, then there must be at least a little truth to it.

He moved to catch up to her. “Lahar.”

She paused, turning to face him, her expression peculiar. “Yes?”

“Talk to me, _bonita_.” Taking her face between his hands, he tipped her head back so he could watch her eyes. “Why put such stock in old wives' tales? This is a modern world, and I would think someone as educated as yourself would not believe what is whispered by frightened peasants around their cookfires.”

He watched as she licked her lips nervously. “You don't use my name much, I thought you would...know.”

Generally Zevran would laugh at that, but instead, he said, “Mages are not bound by their names, _encantadora_ , otherwise they would not be bandied about so much.”

“Names have _power_. You say my name, I stop. I say your name, you listen.” A small hand pressed over his heart. “Name a thing – a fear, a person, a hope or dream – and you understand it. If someone were to call your name in a crowd, what would you do?”

“I would stop.” He shrugged, even as he noticed the tiny furrow between her brows. “My name is not common, even in Antiva. Names with 'zev' in them I have heard, yes.”

“But not 'Zevran'?” He nodded his reply as she continued. “Say something steals the chickens from the farmer's coop, but he isn't sure if it is a fox, a person, or a wolf. How is he to combat the thief?”

The Crow stroked her forehead, wanting nothing more than to erase the lines there. “He would have to find out.”

“Why?” He felt like he was being led to some conclusion that should be clear. 

Once he figured it out, Zevran would probably feel stupid. However, he humoured her. “So he would know how to combat it. If it was a fox, then wires and a dog would work. If it was a wolf, then a dog would be enough. If it was a person, then the person could be caught by having a guard on watch...”

“He would have to identify what it was. He would have to _name_ it, Zev,” she pointed out, tapping his chest. “Once a thing is named, it can be known, understood, _controlled_ , even stopped or killed.” Shaking her head, Lahar stepped away from him. “Demons are the same – if you know its name, you can control it, contain it, destroy it. For a time, at least. If I were to tell you where I was raised, who raised me – you would know more, you would be able to hurt me, stop me, kill me. _Control_ me. I already have enough leashes, I don't want more – my phylactery in Denerim, my forced conscription to the Wardens. And you, don't you have enough power over me already in trade over the power I have over you?” Waving a hand, she encompassed both of them. “Must you have it all?”

“That was not my intent, _mi cielo_ ,” he tried to assure her, reaching out to touch her again. Needing to convey his meaning to her the way he was best at, Zevran pulled her to him, cupping her cheek once more. “My intent is to understand, yes, but only so that I may serve you better, _amante_ , and for no other reason that.”

He was pleased that she leaned into him, her face pressing into his chest as her slim arms went about his waist. “I don't want you to serve me.”

He gave her a gentle squeeze. “You and I apply different meanings to the same words, _pequeña_. I say 'serve' and you hear 'servitude'. Yet I mean 'assist' or 'care for'. Do not forget that this is not my native tongue, and you perhaps may know more meanings to a word than I.”

“You speak it better than most.” He could feel Lahar's breath warming a spot on his chest through the linen of his shirt. “Don't try and play dumb. The only reasons anyone would know you weren't raised speaking Ferelden are because of your accent and speech patterns. They're more suited to what Fereldens would consider prose rather than conversation.”

“Ah, just so,” he admitted, leaning away so he could catch sight of her face. “I have to go check the perimeter, so why not go and speak with our companions as is your wont? I shall join you shortly, and we can continue your language training.”

She gave him a tight smile, but it was a smile nevertheless. “You know, sometimes I wonder about you.”

“Oh? Do tell, _mi hermosa amante_ , I am all ears.” He leaned down and smiled, wiggling said appendages just to tease a bigger smile out of her.

It worked, her nose scrunching up above a small smile, and her eyes twinkling. “I wonder how you can be such a good teacher, because you _are_ really good at it. Makes me wonder how you picked up that skill.”

“Hmm, that would be trade secrets,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her temple before giving her a push back to the camp fire. “Perhaps tonight I could be convinced to impart such things.”

“I'll hold you to that,” she replied, waving as she left him. 

Making his rounds slowly, Zevran wanted to savor the few minutes he had to himself each day. Squatting by the base of a tree, he ran fingers along the trigger on a trap, assessing its sturdiness. Satisfied, he moved on, pausing to look over his handiwork periodically. Most evenings were a flurry of activity to set up camp, to get clean, fed, and spend a little time socializing. Zevran, however, avoided the others, except Lahar, as he had never been one who enjoyed other people's close company, by and large, and they all seemed so blastedly young, sometimes, that it grated on his nerves.

 _Perhaps 'young' is not the correct description,_ he thought, musing for a moment, as he massaged the back of his neck absentmindedly. _Ignorant is much more apt. Even the Orlesian flower smacks of that sour tang of superiority. The Sten 'knows' he is superior because of his Qun. Morrigan for her being apostate who has refused all leashes, Alistair because he is a 'hero' and Wynne..._ Actually, Zevran didn't _dare_ think of Wynne much at all, or he would see red. 

She got on every one of his nerves, set his teeth on edge and had the audacity to stare down her long nose at him as though he were some uneducated dockwhore. _Whore and slave and killer I may be, but I am far from uneducated or stupid._ Grunting to no one, his train of thought soured. _Stupid Crows do not live long. Ugh, let them all live in their little tra-la-la worlds. I do not need them or want them._ In the world he came from, heroes were the first to be killed, before even the weak. Then the stupid would come next, again, even before the weak. The weak were to be controlled, and if somehow they became strong, then they would be used, but properly. The Guild did not waste any of its many resources. 

Content that the perimeter was properly protected for the evening, Zevran headed back to the main body of the camp. Lahar was the only person to ever seek him out, and as young as she was and could seem, she was the only one who didn't aggravate him to distraction. She would pester him with questions, or simply sit with him after sparring, content to listen or to share in the quiet. It was soothing. There was never any hint of reproach or disdain for him in her eyes, no judgment ever waiting in the wings. His mage appeared to be only happy to let things be, accepting them as merely part of his nature. A bit naïve for her to be that way, but it was pleasing to him. Amongst his own kind there was a similar acceptance, however it was always tainted with having to be vigilant against attacks, for any friend could become an enemy, very quickly, and any enemy could become an ally. 

Nodding to Alistair who waved at him in a fair approximation of an amicable fashion, Zevran went to his and Lahar's tent, fetching his armor so that he could check its stitching. Earlier in the day, he had thought he felt a knot where it should not be, and he planned on fixing it. He also had a few shirts that needed mending, and if he remembered correctly, one of Lahar's leather stockings had a tear. Kneeling as he dug through their packs, the Crow found himself wondering, not for the first time, about Lahar's upbringing.

A Crow had raised her, this he knew for fact. He also knew she came from a place where elves were not welcome at all. Clearly it was an orphanage of some sort, but what kind? The way she had referred to it set Zevran's hackles to rise, but he couldn't put his finger on why. Adding up what he knew of the young mage, he realized there were gaping holes everywhere. He knew her age, he knew how old she had been when she went to the Tower. He knew her favorite spells, foods – honey and anything he cooked apparently. He knew she preferred to fall asleep on her left side with him curled around her. He knew the way she braced her feet when she was staring down someone larger than herself, telling them in no uncertain terms how things would be. He knew she liked when he brushed her hair and pressing her ear to his chest or back as he spoke – the better to hear the 'rumbles' as she described it. All these things were knowing of the woman, but not knowing her. Zevran didn't even know what her favorite color was, or if she even had one. 

In the end, what he didn't know was far more than what he did. Sighing as he gathered what he needed for repairs, Zevran backed out of the tent carefully. Silently he vowed he would pry those pieces of information from her, because one never knew when such knowledge would be needed for him to be able to anticipate her needs or to ensure her safety. _And she seems to view me wanting to know these things as an invasion of her privacy. Tchk, as much as I understand wanting to keep one’s secrets, surely she must be aware that it is abnormal to hide these things from everyone?_

Settling by the fire, not quite facing it, Zevran leaned over his self-appointed tasks. In the process of searching his cuirass' stitching for anything worn or knotted, he felt Leliana approaching long before she was near enough to hear, as she was light-footed. Then again, it was probably some part of his mind noting her body language subconsciously, always aware of surroundings and possible threats or targets. Any change tended to put him on the alert, especially with so few people. In Antiva City, he had been far more comfortable than out here, simply because of the fact that his senses hyper-focused on everything rather than sifting out only the most necessary of information. It was like being in a large room with a handful of people yelling and screaming with every single movement and flickering expression. He was just better suited to solitude or clashing stimuli, not this...limited exposure to vast amounts of information. 

Not looking up from his work, he addressed the woman. “Is there something you need, fair bard, or is this a social call?”

Gracefully the red-head sank to her haunches. “Can it not be both, Zevran?”

“Ah, it is to be business and pleasure, then?” He found the troublesome frayed edge of thick twine that was used to hold his armor together; flicking a slim knife from the sheath that resided at the small of his back, Zevran cut the thread, tugging enough of it free for him to knot further down the seam. “But I would first have to ask my Warden for permission; I am not the sort to travel around behind a lover's back needlessly.”

Those overlarge, faded blue eyes barely even batted a single exaggerated lash at him. “I came to inform you that it has been decided you should continue to take first watch from here on.”

Threading the leather-working needle with catgut, he began restitching the loose patch of his armor. “And when was this decided?”

“Lahar taxes herself. Did you not say so yourself, Zevran?” The way his name rolled around in her mouth would almost be enticing if the Crow didn't have a deep-seated mistrust of Orlesian bards in general. 

“Travel has been easy, fair bard, and my Warden has not pushed herself unduly,” he responded mildly, however the “of late” hung unspoken in the air between the two rogues. 

Leliana smoothed her hands over her backside as she sat fully, legs crossing. “It is plain to see she is not used to travel or fighting, Zevran. You know this, as do I. She is a delicate flower that will be trampled if she is not rested and protected.”

 _Ah-ha, I **thought** I saw you making eyes at her backside when no one was looking. I knew it!_ he chortled in the confines of his own mind. 

“And yet, this equates to me taking first watch somehow?” he asked, probing the logic that the others would have used. 

“You are being difficult, Zevran,” she stated primly. “Speak plainly, and I may tell you what you wish to know.”

Slyly, he glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “I wish to know if _all_ your hair is red.”

That garnered the intended response of a little incredulous huff. “It is, and why would you even wish to know such a thing? Oh, never mind. The noise the two of you make during your nightly, and _morning_ , exertions is enough to wake the dead. Alistair brought up the point of worrying about her not getting enough rest with such goings on, and Wynne voted on putting a stop to it. _I_ said it was sweet, if a tad detrimental to my own rest.” Leliana leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm. “But even so, Lahar seems to have been well-rested during the day. I would even say revitalized. You did not see how she used to be, up all night and walking all day as she was. I worry that if you take a watch that may break her sleep, she won't get the chance. So in this, we are all in agreement. On the nights you take watch, you shall take the first one. Alistair is next, then Sten, and then myself.”

He hummed his understanding. “That is rather thoughtful, and agreeable.” Since she insisted on sitting with him, he passed her one of his shirts and the tin of regular thread, along with its attendant needle. “Do you think you could patch this while I work on Lahar's thigh guards?”

“You do realize you're impossible, yes, Zevran?” she mock-groused, even as she took the garment in hand.

Smiling as he chuckled low, he responded, “On the contrary my dear, I am told how very easy I am.”

“Oh you would say that wouldn't you?” she snorted, giving him rolled eyes and a feigned grimace.

It didn't take him long to patch Lahar's thigh guard, and he set it beside his repaired cuirass. Frowning, he looked around, having expected his elf to have long since joined him. She was nowhere to be seen. The last he had caught sight of her was when she was heading towards Bodahn.

Restless, he asked of the Orlesian who was still beside him, working on another of his tunics, “When was the last you saw Lahar?”

“I think she went to see Morrigan.” It was absentminded, as she hunched over his shirt, laying neat stitches. “I called out to her, but she said she wasn't feeling like talking. She seemed to be in a bit of a mood actually.”

“Ah.” Rising, Zevran nodded his thanks and aimed his feet towards Morrigan's lean-to.

Traversing the distance to the outskirts of camp took only a few moments, but he was met by Ser Prize who headbutted him once, wagging the stump of tail he had. Patting the beast on the head, Zevran approached the Wild Witch's fire. Muffled voices reached his ears, one of them obviously Morrigan's, the other belonging to Lahar.

“I don't want to go back there right now.” Lahar was hugging herself as she paced back and forth, slightly hunched, as if in pain.

“You needn't if you do not wish to.” Morrigan was tugging a pile of blankets into something resembling order. “You know you may stay with me as long as you require.”

Lahar heaved a heavy sigh, fraught with relief. “Thank you. I'm sorry to impose, but thank you.”

One of those strange smiles that were only ever granted to the Warden was on the Chasind's face. “My friend, _you_ are never an imposition on my hospitality.” Pulling back the edge of a few blankets, she patted it. “Come, lay your head down and rest. Cast your worries over such men from your mind for a time. Shall I put a glyph of good dreams upon you?”

Zevran watched quietly from beside a tree, beyond the fire's light, surprised. He had no idea what would have driven his Warden to renege on their usual sleeping arrangement and turn to the Witch for succor rather than himself. But even so, he watched as Lahar climbed under the covers, curling into a kittenish ball facing Morrigan. The Witch tugged the blankets up and over her before lying down to face her. Their hands curled together between them, making an odd pair. From this distance they almost looked like sisters, with their fair skin and dark hair. 

“Morrigan, you must think me silly.” Lahar’s voice was muffled by the blankets, but still intelligible.

“No, my friend, I do not think you silly,” Morrigan said, accompanied by a laugh. “I think you young. I think you worried and stressed. I think you overburdened, but silly, no.”

Lahar's voice drifted, strained and sleepy in one. “Morrigan?”

“Hmm?” 

“I wish you were my sister.” A small, scooting wiggle shifted the blankets that covered her. 

There was a long pause before the Witch draped an arm over the Warden, pulling her closer. “You are, in all the ways that matter, my one, true friend.”

Groaning to himself quietly, Zevran went to keep watch on the camp. It seemed he would be sleeping alone tonight. _Ugh, careful what you wish for, Arainai, you just might get it._ And here he had been praying for some further solitude.


	13. Chapter 13

XXX  
Murder 12  
XXX

Rubbing some of the trail dust from his forehead, Zevran stretched. He was feeling the effects of five days without sleep. Meditation helped greatly, but in the time since he first awoke with Lahar beside him, the Crow had become used to at least an hour of sleep. _Perhaps I am simply getting old,_ mumbling in the confines of his mind, for it seemed as though when he was thirty, a week or two without sleep would earn him nothing more than a mild headache. While now, midway between fifty and sixty, a mere five days of nothing more than meditation to rest his mind and body were giving him nothing but ill effects. His temper was shorter, but that probably had more to do with the company, namely Wynne's company. That was most likely why he was so tired, and now that he wasn't running on hyper-focused adrenaline, assessing and seeking to secure his position in the party, Zevran had little to use for physical fuel. 

Zevran had found himself each morning left to guard Bodahn's cart and the party's gear, teamed with Wynne, Ser Prize and Morrigan. Frankly, it felt rather insulting. However, they were just about to stop for the night, and while the Crow had left well enough alone with Lahar, tonight that should end. Or so he hoped. Five days should be long enough for a woman to get over female complaints, he figured, and guessed that that had been why Lahar avoided him these last few days. 

Morrigan drew apace with him, her movements sleek as any wild animal’s. “Elf, don't you think it is approaching time for us to find a camp?”

Grunting, he arched an eyebrow at her. “A suggestion or a command, my dear?”

“'Tis merely a suggestion, or would you trust the oaf to find something suitable?” she asked, making a fair point.

Sighing, Zevran nodded. “I shall see to it then. When I find one, I will inform the others.” He called to Ser Prize with a slap to his bare thigh. “Come with me, and we shall see if we may find some food as well, yes?” Ser Prize hopped around before trotting in a circle, barking.

Vaulting into Bodahn's moving cart, Zevran freed his bow and quiver, slinging both over his shoulders before jumping from the cart just as easily. Sandal clapped his hands in pleasure at the display, and Bodahn, used to the assassin's usual methods, hardly reacted. Leaving the others behind and with Ser Prize in tow, the Crow slipped through the bramble lining the narrow track that the group had been following. The cart made it so they couldn't simply travel through any which way, but had to follow something that would be kind enough to wheels. 

They worked as a team, the large mabari sniffing out water, and Zevran using his attunement to his surroundings to find a small creek that wended through the much sparser forest at this end of the Brecilian. Crouching beside the stream, he leaned on hands and knees much like an animal, sniffing the water before scooping some up. Satisfied that it was clean, the Crow nodded to the hound, both in quiet agreement. This had been the way of things since they left the Dalish, and both knew their parts. Usually though, Zevran would have gone off in search for a campsite at Lahar's behest, with Ser Prize showing up during one of the dog's random checks on the forward party.

Ser Prize chased several rabbits to ground, snapping their necks with a large paw, while Zevran veered off following some deer tracks he found. They would eat well this night, and he had plans to make jerky from the surplus venison. If he could catch up to the deer, for they were generally semi-nocturnal creatures, contrary to common belief. Luck was with him, and he found a buck along with his harem of several does. Creeping forward silently, remaining downwind, he watched twitching ears and flicking tails. He would only have one, possibly two chances to strike a deer down, but he knew it would be no true trial. Rusty his skills may be, but they had been easily reclaimed in his time amongst the clan. Picking out a doe that didn't have a fawn beside her, Zevran took careful aim, squatting at the foot of a tree. While yes, the party would need meat, even if he somehow were able to fell more than one of the deer, it would be a sad thing to do so. 

It was not the way of _Vir Tanadahl_ to take needlessly or excessively. And as much as he denied it, the time amongst the Dalish had reminded him of just how Dalish he truly was, deep down.

With a humming twang, his arrow launched forward, spinning as it cut through the air. The deer all startled at the sudden motion and sound, but the Crow had already guessed a trajectory for their likely flight. Upper lip curling, he was already nocking another arrow, taking aim without blinking even as the first arrow slammed into a doe's rump. Letting fly the second one, it took the doe in the neck. With legs flailing, the animal fell to the ground, bleating frothy saliva mixed with blood. The others had already fled, barking bleats and grunts falling from their tight black lips. His target struggled, her poor sides heaving in belabored agony. Mindful of the sharp hooves – he had had an early demonstration in his aunt's clan of what they could do, and it had left him in the Keeper's care for several days – he drew his sword, knowing he would need the extra length. Swinging the blade down, he cut through the muscle of the doe's neck, severing blood vessels so that she would bleed out faster. 

As her struggles faded and slowed down to nothing, Zevran knelt over the deer, holding his hands over her. “ _Atisha halam'shiral_.” Dipping a finger in the animal's blood, he touched it to his bottom lip. “ _Ma serannas._ ”

Doing a quick field dressing, he scooped out the intestines and organs, tossing the more useful bits into a leather pouch he carried for just such a purpose. The heart, liver and kidneys sat next to the rabbits Ser Prize had killed earlier, along with their organs. He figured he could finish skinning the deer and butchering it at camp tonight. _I probably should show Alistair how to do that, it should not be beyond him._ It also carried the benefit of taking some of the more annoying tasks from his shoulders. Carefully, Zevran hoisted the carcass over his shoulders, mindful of innards that might want to become outers, and made his way back to the campsite for the night.

Setting the deer down, he addressed the mabari. “Ser Prize, guard this while I get the others, yes? And I saved the hearts for you, as payment for your hard work,” he added, patting the pouch as he placed it by the deer.

The mabari sneezed, nodding his head in the doing, and set to digging what would most likely become their fire pit for the night. _That beast is far too intelligent to be natural._ He shook his head in bemused wonder, as he found himself frequently doing in regards to the mabari. If the stories he had heard of mages altering the dogs in times past were true, that would explain much.

He found his companions not too far from where he had left them. “Campsite, along with a deer and a few hares is a fifteen minute walk to the east. Morrigan,” He turned, addressing the Chasind. “I left trail signs for you.”

The Witch nodded, transforming into a large bear to break through the brush and make a path for Bodahn's wagon. Wynne frowned her disapproval at the apostate's magic, but Zevran ignored it in favor of jogging off to find Lahar's group. Their tracks were clear and easy to follow, and he found them rather closer than he had expected. Pausing, he took in the fact that Lahar was healing Leliana, and Alistair was holding a poultice to his head.

Frowning, he walked briskly up to his Warden. “I heard no trouble.”

She flinched, glancing up at him and back down, her answer terse. “It just happened.”

Alistair clanked as he straightened. “Some wolves decided we might be tasty. Well, we showed them.” Clearly concussed, the _shemlen_ swayed a bit. “Looks like I can make some of my famous Fereldan food tonight. Lamb and pea stew!”

Snorting, Zevran forced the young man to sit down near bard and mage. “I was never aware of the fact that wolf meat was the same as lamb.”

“Yeah, well, wolves eat lamb, so I figure you are what you eat. So, they're lamb,” he said, decisively nodding once. 

Falling to his haunches, the Crow grabbed Alistair's face, tilting it side to side, checking pupil reaction. “A bizarre form of logic, but I suppose it works. Do you feel like emptying the contents of your stomach?”

“It's only a little blow to the head, I'm fine,” the Templar trained boy – _man_ Zevran had to remind himself – demurred. 

“Good, then you can help carry those carcasses back to camp.” Grunting Zevran released Alistair's head. “If you can backtalk, then there is no need for Wynne to trouble herself with you.”

“Ohh, someone's in a bad mood.” Alistair snorted at him, even as he went to help Sten scoop up two of the most likely looking corpses. “Wake up on the wrong side of the world? Why not go back to Antiva? I hear it's rather nice, and full of...Antivans.”

Rolling his eyes, Zevran dragged some of the more mangled and unrecognizable wolves to toss into the forest, away from the track. “I like Ferelden. It has so much fine scenery.”

“Oh? Like the rocks and trees, and oh look is that a tree that looks like a woman?” Alistair waved a hand, indicating the monotonous surroundings.

“Oh, it has its charm, what with so many large, strapping men,” Zevran retorted, finishing his task quickly. 

“I don't know about that, Zevran.” Groaning, they turned back towards the women, to see the youngest Warden supporting a lightly limping Leliana. “It must be very boring for someone _like you_.”

Casting him a mocking glance, Zevran pitched his voice just so. “Lies, my dear Alistair? They do not suit you! What complaints could I have with my new homeland? There is intrigue and fighting and women aplenty! And food is bountiful, though I could do without your 'lamb and pea' stew.”

“Yes, well it's better than your cooking. That tastes funny,” he groused. The Templar's strides were not so long as one would think, given the length of the man's legs, but that would require ignoring the great weight of armor the _shemlen_ wore.

Moving to guide the others to the campsite, they caught up to Bodahn's cart just as it was breaking into the small space. “You mean it tastes like food, rather than old boiled boots.”

“Well now, that is a fine looking place to camp, wouldn't you say, ser?” the dwarf with his intricate braids, sitting high on the bench of his cart, nodded his head towards where Ser Prize was digging busily near the downstream area of the site. “And ho now, that fine dog has even made us two pits already!”

Mierda, _but that thing is_ smart _. Smarter than most people at the least._ Zevran watched the mabari scuttle around in a widening circle, piling the mound of displaced dirt to one side. That meant in the morning, the party's waste could be covered easily so as to not foul the surrounding forest. _I wonder if I could teach him to dig for roots and onions? Maybe even herbs? He finds deathroot for me easily enough._

From the corner of his eye, Zevran noted Lahar guiding Leliana to Wynne, who set about tutting over the Orlesian, her hands glowing. That left Lahar free to go and wander off on her own for a little. Morrigan was already setting up for the night’s dinner, at least that meant that the food should be quite edible. Glancing at Sten and Alistair who were already pulling out the rolled up tents from Bodahn's cart, Zevran smiled to himself. _Ah, everyone is pleasantly busy._ Yanking his and Lahar's tent from the cart as well, he tossed it over to where he would set it up later, along with their packs. _Time to tend to my Bonded,_ he thought, as well as himself.

He didn't even bother sneaking, as everyone was used to his comings and goings by now. Following behind Lahar who had headed upstream, Ser Prize in tow, the Crow let the soft sounds of the interrupted forest relax him. The stream made barely any noise, but the wind in the trees sang along with the birds slowly returning to their nests, chirping to themselves. However, it was the rambling of his mage to her Mabari that put him most at ease.

“I know trees are all we ever seem to see, but I like them.” There was a soft bark of agreement, which teased a small smile from him as well. “Everything is so _green,_ Ser Prize. In the Tower, there was nothing like this. It's almost like home was. Whenever I looked over the walls, there were trees as far as the eye could see in every direction. And the air? It was so warm, filled with the smell of fruit and heat, not like anything we've found here.”

Zevran's steps slowed. This was more detail than he had ever hear her speak of in relation to where she had been born. _A warm, fruit filled place with trees?_ somewhat disturbed, he frowned in thought. _Many places have fruit and trees, many are warm. No, Zevran, you are jumping to conclusions,_ shaking his head at himself. For a moment he had the sneaking idea that Crow and Lahar may have something to do with each other. After all, that would be too...pat an answer. Besides, Crow was probably some personal demon of his that had come to torment him. Some spirit of the Fade, like Justice or Faith or Righteousness who thought him an interesting toy, drawing from his memories of Antiva to torture him. For what purpose precisely, the Crow couldn't be entirely sure, but the Fade and its denizens were fell creatures with their own lines of logic that a mere mortal like himself couldn't understand.

 _Amaranthine is far warmer than this part of Ferelden, and there are several Chantry run orphanages in that region. Also, the finest ciders come from there,_ satisfied with that line of logic, he picked up his pace.

A little splashing and some barking echoed up ahead, Lahar having ceased her conversation with Ser Prize. The young mage had removed her leg guards and hiked her already short robes up high, wading into the stream barefoot. Ser Prize was rolling around on his back on the bank, tongue lolling as he huffed and grunted with the motion, before flopping onto his stomach, looking straight in Zevran's direction. However, their mutual mistress wasn't alerted to his presence yet as she bent over, trailing pale fingers through the water, her loose hair cascading over a shoulder. Closing his eyes for a moment, the Crow savored the image in the silence of his own thoughts. His Warden in that second was just like any other young woman wading through a stream, simply living and breathing, with no worry to bow her shoulders and back. It was a nice thing, a sweet memory to set into the lockbox of his mind for those times when he would be alone or when the Guild finally reached him.

Of course, they would do everything in their power to steal such an idyllic memory from him. Sometimes he swore he could feel their breath on the back of his neck or hear the crying of vultures that closely resembled his own screams from the vault of memory. It was only a matter of time. And unless he could drag Lahar through everything, building her up as something untouchable, he would never be safe. _And neither will she._

Going to the giant, deep chested Mabari, the Antivan removed his boots quietly. Then came his armor, which he set beside the war hound, who lay his huge head on the ground, watching him with his vibrant yellow-green eyes. Zevran winked at the dog conspiratorially, holding a finger to his lips, urging quiet. Small, bristly, doggy eyebrows worked this way and that, before Ser Prize gave what looked suspiciously like a responding wink. So far Lahar had not noticed him, clearly trusting her dog to guard her, which he would, if there was a threat. However, the Crow was glad that he and the Mabari were familiar enough with each other for the dog to know he would pose no threat to Lahar.

Easing his tunic off, Zevran was left in nothing more than his smalls, which he debated for a moment also removing, but he reminded himself of Fereldans' finickiness. Even though Lahar was his Bonded and had seen him naked countless times, he did not wish to simply jump upon her while he was nude with no warning. It would be unhealthy for him at worst – she was a mage – and frightening for her at best.

So even though he stepped into the water near silently, he was careful to announce his arrival only when he was within 'smelling' range. “Ah, that is brisk, no?”

Lahar rounded on him, a hand twisting into a complex shape before freezing. “Zev! Don't...don't startle me like that!”

Catching her about the waist, he pulled her close, while grabbing her casting hand and giving its palm a kiss. “ _Perdóneme, mi cielo_ , it is just that you and I have not had any time alone. I found myself unable to resist the combination of water, yourself and this privacy we have.”

“It's...it's alright.” Her tongue darted over her lips, but she had yet to relax in his arms.

Tilting his head, Zevran asked, “Have I done something to displease you, _amante_?”

“No,” which was belied by her tugging at his hold. 

Dipping closer, he pressed his nose into the side of her neck, inhaling deeply of her perfume. “Then what is wrong, _mi diosa_?” Licking the line of thick vein slowly. “It has been days since you left our tent.” 

Lahar leaned into him, her head tipping back, and he could feel her pulse picking up speed, the rhythm of her blood in her veins fluttering against his lips. “I...I need....”

Groaning into her ear, releasing her hand so he could slip it under the hem of her robes, “I know _exactly_ what you need, for it is the same as what I desire.”

There was a whimper when his fingers met her folds, _Ah, no undergarments Good, you hoped for this then as much as I did..._ Touching her firmly, spreading the petals open, he felt moisture gather at her opening. Seeking her mouth with his own, the Crow kissed her deep and languorously while he teased at her flower with his middle finger. Dipping his digit into her, Zevran's own moan echoed Lahar's as muscles clenched around the intrusion, clearly hungry for more. 

"Zevran," she whispered as he pulled her closer, as he moved to kiss the side of her neck. "Zevran...stop."

Hooking his finger in a come hither, he massaged the tightness of her clamping muscles. “Mm...no. You need this. _I_ need this.” Gently grazing her ear with his teeth, the Crow tilted his hips, rubbing the straining bulge of his manhood against her hip, his voice husky, “No games, _amante_ , it has been too long.”

His mage whimpered, but her hand encircled his wrist, her face twisting almost with pain. "We...we can't."

Allowing his fingers to slip free of her, he changed his tactics, sinking in the water to his knees, rubbing his cheek over her bared thigh, “Oh, we can, _mi niña_. The others are not so near. No one will hear us or stumble upon us.”

Hands went to his shoulders, as though she would push him away, but rather they flexed over the muscle covered bone. “Please, Zev, stop. We...we _can't_.”

Giving a soft sniff, he detected no blood – not that at this point it would have put him off – near her femininity. Zevran nuzzled at her, drawing the mage's name out, “ _Lahar_. No games.”

“Zev. Stop. Now,” he could tell she was forcing the words out, making herself pull away, “ _Now,_ Zevran. Don't...don't make me order you.”

Going still, the Antivan leaned back to see Lahar's head turned aside, her teeth worrying her bottom lip hard enough to begin to draw blood as skin was peeled away. “You would not do that, _bonita_.”

A strangled little whimper and she pulled away from him hard enough that she half-stumbled. “Stop. No more. I...I _order_ you to.”

Rocking back on his heels in surprise, the cold stream's water lapping at his lower back, his voice went suddenly deadly quiet. “What? _Why?_ ”

“Space, I...I need space,” fumbling with the words, not looking at him, but at some distance over his head, hands clenching in her robes. “I...I can't do this. Um...with you...Anymore.”

Shocked, the Crow could only squat there as she fled, pausing long enough by Ser Prize to reclaim her shoes, thigh guards and small clothes. And then she was gone. Staring at the space she had occupied, his hands felt empty. He even thought he felt a sliver of betrayal. There was no reason, none at all, that he could come up with that would make her _order_ him to do something outside of battle. She had wanted him, had fought tooth and nail to say 'no'. 

_There has to be...some explanation,_ staring vacantly at his palms for a long time. Zevran merely had no clue as to what that logical explanation could be. He hadn't hurt her, hadn't done anything to anger her, had not once frightened her or done _anything_ , anything at all, to warrant her fleeing him like that. _Memories possibly?_ which was something that niggled and wriggled like a slimy worm of something unnameable in his skull. Something that made his stomach feel sick. _Perhaps I pushed too hard the other night?_ That was the only other thing he could come up with, it filled him with something akin to dread. All he had wanted to know were common things, but that had been an invasion? Possibly something to make her feel _trapped_?

For her sake, Zevran hoped he could suss out a way to counter that and get the answers from her as well.

She was no good to anyone broken.

XXX

More days of traveling, more nights alone made Zevran's never-so-good temper flare. However, he still kept it in check. Bracing his back against a tree near Morrigan's fire, the elf slowly sank to the forest floor, too far to clearly pick out the two female mages’ conversation unless he tried. Mostly what he could hear was the rising and falling of their voices, almost making a song when mixed with the night sounds of the forest. After a time, when they had fallen silent for awhile, he rose, creeping towards the guttering fire.

Morrigan was curled up with Lahar, who had her head tucked under the apostate’s chin. The Crow put another piece of deadfall on the fire, stirring it into life, watching quietly. Magic was on the air, and he knew that the Wild Witch had placed a glyph on the Warden, as she had each night. If he looked from the corner of his eye, he thought he could almost see a faint shimmer hanging over Lahar's sleeping form. She looked so tiny and vulnerable. If he hadn't given her his oath, if he hadn't wanted his freedom so badly, it would have been a prime opportunity. Killing both Morrigan and Lahar would take out the most powerful and pragmatic of the party in one fell swoop. And then he could move on to Sten, who would have to be next, then Leliana followed quickly by Alistair. Wynne would only be a personal bonus, for she couldn't do much good or harm to anyone in the long run. 

Sighing, Zevran went to sit beside the women's tangled pile, reaching out to brush his hand over the back of Lahar's head. _What dreams do you have this night, my Warden?_ noting the tiny frown, the deep wrinkle in her forehead. Leaning to rest his elbows on his knees he remained quiet, keeping watch on the mage. Part of him was tempted to curl around her back and ignore Morrigan in favor of gaining at least a little sleep for himself. But he didn't think that would work out well. The lean-to was too exposed, and he was fairly certain that if he somehow managed to close his eyes and sleep, that any movement on the Witch's part would throw him into high alert. Frankly, that would be unwise to say the least.

“And do you intend on staring at her all night? Your presence should warrant a nice singeing to that peacock hair of yours,” acidic and soft, Morrigan's eyes were still closed.

“Ah, but you both are so enticing,” mirroring the volume, but not the tone. “How is a man to stay away?”

Bee-stung, plump lips twisted as they pursed, and pale mustard eyes opened, "Oh, do shut up, elf. It is almost time for my turn at watch. You take my place for now."

Warily, “And what is in it for you, my dear?” Gesturing at the young elf between them, “Why so soft with her, what reason do you care for her comfort and rest so much?”

The _shemlen_ gently extricated herself from Lahar, her unpinned hair quickly twisted into its customary feathery bun, “Just as you do the same for her, elf? Must I always have reasons for what I do? Must any companionship have a price tag laid heavy upon it like chains?”

Zevran scoffed. “People like you and I do nothing for free.”

“And _I_ am neither whore nor assassin, Crow,” a piercing gaze was leveled at him as she said this. “What reasons do you use to justify what you do?”

Snorting, crossing his arms, “She is my ticket to freedom. This should be obvious to one as intelligent as yourself, my dear.”

“Is she now? What of when she releases you from your oath? When you have gained your freedom?” The skirt of leather links and straps was wrapped around her waist as she said this. “We do what we do as we must, elf. I count her friend as she and I are mages and women amongst buffoons. It is not something someone like you would understand. So do not try.”

“And you? Will you not run after you have completed whatever task your mother set you?” Zevran asked the pointed question. He was no fool and had heard the story from Alistair of how Morrigan had joined their number. “This Blight means nothing to you. We are alike in that we would be well content in allowing some other fools to bear this burden.”

The apostate gathered her small pouch of components and staff, sniffing at him disdainfully. “Say and believe what you must, elf. 'Tis none of my concern.” Giving him a dismissive wave. “Remain by her side, or I will kill you when the opportunity presents itself. For some strange reason your presence eases her rest. I do not claim to understand it. When it is time for next watch, I shall give a wolf's cry, so do not try to attack me when you awaken.”

With that she stalked away, melting into the shadows with an ease similar to his own. Like him, she was a wild thing of shadows and sharp edges, veiled in beauty. _Dirthamen, what games we, Fear and Deceit, play._ Zevran settled down in the still warm spot Morrigan had vacated. Surely a short nap would do his mood some good, and as the icy tang of Lahar filled his nose, he closed his eyes. Willing sleep to overtake him, he felt a glimmer of relaxation if only for a brief time.

XXX

_Giving a joyous whoop Taliesin took a running leap, jumping the distance between the two rooftops nimbly, landing in a forward shoulder roll, before bouncing up and off, running again. Zevran rolled his eyes, following his fellow Crow, the light of stars and moon in the sky painting everything in inky blues and silvery grays. Beside him, Rinna hopped, vaulting in a back flip, almost flying the meters as though she were a bird. He did none of these things, merely using his unbroken speed to jump, his booted soles meeting the plastered building's walls, while his hands latched onto the lip of the building, running up the side of the wall in constant motion._

_“Come on, Zevvy! You're lagging!” Rinna called over her shoulder in challenge._

_Not saying a word, Zevran merely continued. He liked to pack as much strain on his body as possible during these rare forays into the unofficial rogue's highway, and if he had simply been all grace – and flashiness truly – the way Tali and Rinna were, he wouldn't get the same workout. Their feet were not exactly noiseless but it didn't matter. It was the fifth day of the week, and most were too busy being rowdy in taverns, cafes, plazas, brothels and at friends’ homes to notice or care that there were rapid footsteps going overhead._

_Running, he sidestepped a rain-barrel, rebounding from another wall with his feet, enjoying how his muscles clenched and unclenched, moving under his bronze skin. Rinna's hair was a golden banner, let loose as it always was, impractical and lovely with the light bouncing off it. Taliesin was scrambling down the next building's wall, shaggy black-brown waves floating like a crazed halo around his head, dropping with an audible grunt that was giddily satisfied. This was their first night of freedom since they had been reunited, and it was to be a thing savored and enjoyed fully. Pausing as he stood at the edge of the last building they would be running over for now, he guessed the distance, putting it at four stories._ Hmm, I cannot let them have _all_ the fun, now can I? _amused exhilaration soared in his veins as he dove head first in a free, spinning fall. Air rushed past his ears, his long braid whipping as he plummeted. At the last possible moment he flipped forward, feet first, maintaining momentum as heels rolled to toes, and he onto his hands, cartwheeling to absorb the force of landing._

_Grit from cobblestones ground into his palms and fingers, but it was a beautiful sensation, along with the thudding as his body channeled the thrust and force of gravity generated by his fall and the natural upwards shove the ground provided, exiting his limbs in graceful symmetry. Rinna's look of approval was no small thing to enjoy as well, lounging against her end of the alley like a svelte cat._

_Taliesin whistled, hands on his hips, pacing back and forth while shaking his head, “You are going to kill yourself one of these days,_ guapo _, with stunts like that.”_

_Bouncing to stillness, he swept into a scraping bow, “Thank you, thank you! I work with the world famous Broma Brothers of the Antiva City Circus! My humble show happens on every ninth day, only in the darkest alleys of Antiva City!”_

_The tall, broad shouldered man threw an arm around his shoulders, holding the other open for Rinna, “Then it's good that I'm the ugly one! We're usually the funnier ones and don't have to work so hard to show off!”_

_“Oh yes, you're definitely funny,” the elven woman sauntered over, leaning into the human's half embrace, “so funny I just_ might _die of laughter by the next Age.”_

_Zevran relaxed as they slumped out of the ally in an awkward trio, as though they had already partaken of the night's usual revelry, “Ah, my fine lovers, let us see what troubles we can avail ourselves of this night!”_

_“Oh, I'm in the mood for a little breaking and entering,” a wide smile played about his lovers' faces at that. “You boys never buy me anything nice....”_

_…._

_He had been in a forest before. It had seemed so dreadfully dirty then. And actually, glancing around, he had to admit forests_ still _looked dirty. Arainai was gliding beside him, her steps slow and sure, eating distance in a way so as to appear she was not going as fast as she truly was._

 _“_ Da'assan _, I am glad you have finally decided to return with me,” leading a llama, the red-head gave him a bright smile._

_“I must...admit I was unsure you would allow me to, all things considered,” hiking his bow higher on his shoulder._

_Periodically he would stumble upon the Dalish woman –_ my aunt _– in the City. Generally he had avoided her, slipping away through crowds or up to the roofs to win free of her possibly sighting him. But sometimes he had found himself actually going to her and talking with her. He wanted to know more about his heritage. More about the whore who had birthed him and left no evidence of her life except for him and a beautiful pair of gloves._

 _A hand went to his face, startling him, “_ Hamin, _nephew, you are my blood. There is much that can be forgiven. You knew no better, and I know how I look to those of us trapped in cities. I look like a child, and what child would have known your mother?”_

_Shifting uncomfortably, the Crow pulled away incrementally so as to not make it obvious that he just wanted to jerk free of the unexpected, overly familiar caress. “It is a question for the ages.”_

_They fell into silence, his uneasy though masked, while hers seemed peaceful and serene. The times he had found himself actually speaking with the woman were usually bitter, angry things, with him flinging words of accusation and needling at her. He had lost a mother he never knew, she had lost a sibling that she had known very well. The Antivan supposed it would be similar to if he had been robbed of Taliesin and Rinna, like the loss of a limb. But that made him think on his two fellows, and inside he soured. For had he_ not _been robbed of them? They had shut him out, discarding him and their unspoken pact. More nights than not, Rinna could be found in Taliesin's bed rather than his, and the human had been using her hard. It was not that he was angry that they shared each other, but that they never invited_ him _anymore into their games. Their partnership in teaching courses to the younger initiates and working together during assignments had suffered from the rift._

_And so, Zevran left. Oh, he knew well that the Guild would come for him, but surely his mother's clan would travel enough to make it a difficult thing for the House of Crows to find him. At least he was free, each and every breath truly his own for the first time. That was something...._

_…._

_Stretching, he worked the kinks from his neck. The sting of the whip was still sharp, an almost pleasant burning ache on his back and chest. His most recent assignment had been...interesting. And good fun. But now he looked forward to a night in his own bed after a nice hot bath._

_Entering his shared apartments, he saw Taliesin rummaging through the communal chest of medical equipment, “Ho there, my handsome friend. Are you clairvoyant? I could use some bandages and a salve.”_

_The human stilled, then eased, “Your assignment was bad too?”_

_“Not so much bad as interesting.” Shrugging, he joined his friend by the trunk. “Why? I thought you were busy teaching the last few days and had nothing expected of you?”_

_Bandages were shoved at him, as well as a few jars and a tin of needles, “She's in my room. I'll get a basin with some hot water.”_

_“She...?” but the older man was already going to the community kitchen and digging out a large pan and moving quickly to the bathroom._

_Frowning, Zevran went to Taliesin's room. Rinna was crouched on the bed, naked and bloody, a knife in her hand, poised to attack. Her face was blank, but quickly eased into a tight smile as she settled back. Welts were all over her, and her thighs didn't really bear looking at, however look he did. There was enough...evidence...of what had been done to account for a bevy of men._

_“Mmn. Not my style, as you know,” flicking his eyes up from the ravaged and abused flesh to coffee brown eyes._

_Rinna shrugged, making the blade disappear, “I know.” She scooted enough to give him a clear invitation to sit, “I just need a bath and some of that salve.”_

_“Ah, our good human friend has said otherwise?” nodding knowingly, setting the kit aside and laying the items out neatly._

_“As usual,” the careful way she sat was in direct contrast to the she usually rested. Now, her legs were curled to one side, awkwardly pressed together as though that would alleviate her discomfort._

_He didn't ask any questions, for they were unnecessary. He merely sterilized two needles and soaked some silk thread in strong spirits, and then opened a few jars. Some were good for bruises, others for open wounds and others...for hurts that were not so easily dealt with._

_She lay a hand over his, even as he had been scooping some of the ganja and poppy laden paste on his fingers, “I don't need that.”_

_“Nonsense,” pulling away so that he could begin rubbing it along the sides of her neck one handed, careful to not touch her throat. “It will help you sleep. This you know as well as I.”_

_Taliesin's entrance forestalled any further protests she may have made, the steaming contents of the basin on one shoulder giving off a sharp rose scent, while in his other hand a tray was balanced, a small pot of tea and several cups on it, “I am no healer, but we can patch you up just fine, Reen. You do it often enough for me and him. Let us do this for you.”_

_Zevran nodded once, “You are technically our apprentice so obey your elders.”_

_“I know, be a good little Crow,” rolled eyes as she stood with deceptive grace and ease, arms held out._

_Taliesin's touch was visibly gentle as he wet a cloth and began wiping the sweat and blood from her upper body, “I can't believe they didn't let you bring me along.”_

_Copying the human's actions, beginning from Rinna's hips and working his way down, “What is done, is done. Don't question it.”_

_“It's alright, Tali,” Rinna's voice was soothing, as though she weren't the one who was a mess. “I got the job done, and I'm alive. Tomorrow you can make me some little pistachio cakes to celebrate.”_

_“Fine, but you better eat the whole pan,” gruffly, the human leaned down kissing her cheek. “Otherwise, Zev will.”_

_Grunting, not letting himself pause as he wiped away the congealed semen from Rinna's sex, “Yes, I thought my pants were getting too small. So that's the reason. The mystery has been solved!”_

_This worked a forced twitter of laughter from the elven woman, “Hmm, maybe the next assignment like this, you should take it. You'd look better in a harem girl's garb than me anyway, with all that jiggle,” a foot coming off the floor to nudge his behind._


	14. Chapter 14

XXX  
Murder 13  
XXX

Ser Prize trotted back to him, the little sack Zevran had fashioned for the Mabari dragged behind him, “Ah, more onions and potatoes?” A grunt and the dog deposited his prize at the Crow's feet, woofing while shaking his stout bottom this way and that. Chuckling, the Antivan scooped up the bag, sorting through it as he walked before handing it off to Wynne so he could reward Ser Prize. “Ah, you are a very smart dog, my friend. A fine dog.” Scratching the beast's head behind the ears and down to the heavy shoulders, “And Alistair said it could not be done! Huzzah, we shall show him, yes?”

“I always said that he was the stupidest one,” Morrigan looked as though she would smile. “'Tis a marvel that you had the patience to teach that beast to dig for such.”

Ser Prize ran in a circle, chasing his non-existent tail, before going on his hind legs to lick Zevran's shoulder. “All it takes is showing him what is to be done a few times, my good Wild Witch. Is it not he who digs our firepits and latrines each eve? It has been that way since I joined this splendid group, so I shall assume that he learned that from _somewhere_ ,” giving a few last vigorous rubs to the mabari's sides and back.

Morrigan smirked, “Well, 'tis apparent that the adage about dogs is not always true.”

Curiosity piqued, “I am unfamiliar with it.”

Wynne cleared her throat. “The saying goes that you cannot teach an old dog new tricks. Have you not heard it before?”

“My olive bowl is not empty, dearest Wynne,” laying on a thick, glowing tone of voice, leering at her faintly.

“Your...olive...bowl?” giving him an odd look.

Leaning back, arms hooked behind his head, “It is a saying. It means stupid. An olive bowl should never be empty, and when it is, it is no good to anyone. Just as a stupid person is of no use.”

“Oh, I can think of a few uses for the mindless,” Morrigan murmured softly.

“That's a strange saying,” the Circle mage ignored the apostate's statement. “I've never heard it.”

“And how many languages do you speak, darling Wynne?” Prodding her, the Antivan maintained a light exterior. It was the easiest way of dealing with the woman he had found, as it generally made her too flustered to continue bothering him. “I am quite the cunning linguist and speak three fluently, and five passably. I do not find it hard to imagine that your tongue may be more nimble than mine, such a fine bird would have accumulated many...tricks by now.”

“I am conversant in Tevinter and Ferelden of course,” mouth thinning to a flat line.

Kicking at a small stone on the track they were following, “Ah, and do you know all of Tevinter's many _colorful_ expressions?” Smiling broadly, “Have you had cause to use it in day to day affairs, such as I have? Experienced and well traveled my tongue may be, but not even I could claim to know all the delightful ways things twist about in the mouth.”

A soft sound of disgust, before speeding up her steps, “Must you make light of _everything_?”

This left he and Morrigan back in their small bubble of space, “Ah, now there is an old dog who has no ability to learn new tricks. Tchk, a shame.”

“'Tis a good thing she is incapable,” a sneer twisting her face on one side up. “Otherwise, she would take up blood magic simply to silence you.”

“Or to turn me into a toad?” winking, letting his arms drop back down to his sides.

The apostate sniffed, “Not even my mother could redo what is already done.”

Leaning over so he could nudge the tall woman with his shoulder in overt familiarity just to watch her flinch. “So what tricks do you think she should learn? Mmn? To dismount from her high horse? Now _that_ would be an excellent trick.”

Morrigan sighed, reaching out as though she would touch him as she stopped, “No, the trick she should learn most is to stay away from another’s business.”

“Another’s...business...?” eyes narrowing as he turned fully to look at her. “And whose business has she been meddling in?”

“Someone who is too impressionable at times,” her bottom lip folded in over her teeth, then popped out as she spoke, uneasy. “Someone who would not be glad to take advantage of others and her position over those in her care....”

Blood rushed to his head, and he cast a hard glance ahead, the name guttural in his mouth, _“Wynne.”_ Fists clenched, rounding back on the apostate, “And _what_ did she say?”

“It is not my place to say, elf,” a hesitation on the words. “I can only tell you that there are reasons that you have been...alone of late. And that they are not of your making.”

Zevran’s throat tightened in controlled anger, “How much of the healing arts do you know, fair Witch?”

“Little,” it was an aggravated sigh. “Otherwise I would counsel you to do as you are inclined.”

“Pfah, _commeidra, hija de puta,_ ” grunting and forcing himself to be satisfied with that for now.

But there _would_ be a reckoning.

XXX

The leash he had been holding himself on snapped. He had been doing his best to ignore Lahar's conversation with Alistair, who had been making noises of affection at her. However, next thing he knew he was jumping through the campfire, flames licking at his clothes but not quite catching, as he aimed for Alistair and hauled him away from Lahar by the back of his chest-plate, using leverage and momentum with the rush of adrenaline screaming in his veins to slam the sturdy Templar to the ground. A hand pressed tight to Alistair's neck holding him in place, while his other rocked back to slam forward into the young man's face. Bone crunched, and the boy roared, bucking as he regathered his wits. Flipping backwards onto his hands, spinning his legs from the hip down, he clipped the man in the jaw, the force of the blow sending him stumbling back.

Keeping himself between Lahar and the _shem_ , the Antivan began to weave side to side, waiting to hear his mage being pulled away by Leliana. Then he dove forward once more, latching onto Alistair's waist in a bum’s rush so that even though the Templar had been moving forward, Zevran's speed and hidden sturdiness carried them several meters back and away from the fire. An armored elbow cracked the crown of his unhelmeted head, doing nothing more than rattling his brain in his skull.

Grunting, “Tchk, you think _that_ will do anything, _boy_?”

“Have you gone _mad_? Let me go, Zevran!” Alistair was struggling, but even as strong as he was, Zevran's weight added to the Templar armor was making it difficult to move.

Spinning up from the ground, forearm locking around the human's neck, Zevran began dragging Alistair behind him, forcing the warrior to resort to an awkward backwards scramble to keep his neck from breaking. “You ask if _I_ have gone mad?” Once they were far enough from the others, who were all in a flurry of motion from the scuffle, the Crow released the young man to fall to the ground. Planting his foot on the center of the Templar trained youth's chest and pinning him to the ground, Zevran grated, “What made you think it was wise to kiss her?”

Hands locked around his ankle, but could not budge or throw him off, “You don't own her! She owns _you_!”

Bending over, Zevran felt his muscles bulge as he hauled the _shem_ up to stand, voice suddenly cool and collected, “And this gives you leave to kiss her?”

“She left you behind,” stormy eyes glared at him with open hostility. “Lahar doesn't take you anywhere anymore. You're in the dust where you belong. Away from her.”

Cold seeped through his hardened bones, and Zevran stepped back casually before rounding a hard kick into the sword embossed plate of Alistair's armor, denting it. “That may be so, _Templar_ , but she is a mage.”

“Templar trained!” yelling before diving for Zevran in a fair imitation of the elf's earlier actions.

Stepping aside before grabbing the boy again, hard enough that leather strained and groaned before the straps snapped, “Close _enough_!” Yanking the metal from the boy, he slammed the offensive armor into the trunk of a tree. “A Templar in all but vows and name! One of her _jailers_.” Hissing he dropped the plate to the ground, lunging and tearing the helmet that hung from Alistair's belt away, squeezing the cheek-plates, which moaned in metallic pain. “Wearing Templar _armor,_ you kissed her! Dressed as a menace and a jailer and a cruel reminder of a life she is glad to be rid of!” The helmet creaked, squealing as Zevran vented his anger on the metal. 

“Maker! What are you _doing_?” scrambling away in obvious horror as Zevran punished the offensive metal.

Baring his teeth, the Crow snarled, “Removing the trash and stench of _this_ abomination.” Allowing the partially crumpled helmet to fall beside the breastplate, he stalked the Fereldan, murder on his mind. It had been Templars, he was sure, who had abused Lahar so much, and this fool _boy_ had dared to force a touch of intimate nature upon her. “You had best allow me to take that filth from you. Or I will remove it from your corpse.”

Alistair drew himself up, “It's just armor.”

“That is not 'just armor',” darting in close to yank at the purple skirt, the heavy, lyrium thread woven material tearing loudly. “Templars are the source of all woes that fall upon mages. And you go to her dressed as one?”

“Maker! I would _never_ hurt her!” spitting in righteous anger, swinging a fist at him.

Feet kicking and fists flying, they fell in a tangle, but Zevran would not leave off. He _would_ pry the marks from the human, or he would wind up killing him for the trespass. In fact, he wasn't entirely sure he wouldn't kill Alistair anyway. The look of terror on Lahar's face as Alistair had cupped her head in gauntleted hands, the resignation and fruitless hopelessness in her tiny little sound of anguish, the way her body froze, unable to fend off the advance – these things were screaming in the assassin's head. He had seen that look, he had had that look before. He had always hated that look. On anyone, even targets. And this...this...Oh he had no words for what Alistair was. _Dead man, he is a dead man!_ a litany of anger and frustration.

By the time Zevran had stripped all of the metal and trappings from the _shem_ , his rage had slackened enough so there was little likelihood that he would turn it on anyone else. At least, not fully. So long as no one set him off again. _Too long without sleep_ moaned inside the confines of his mind.

Panting over the pile of ruined armor, he turned his gaze on the shocked Templar. “No matter if she left me behind, Alistair. Mark my words, someone who has the ability to rob her of the things that make her who she is, is not someone she would ever have truck with.” Pointing at the pile, “Sell it for scrap. Burn it. Bury it. Do whatever you must. But if you _ever_ dress as a Templar near her again, I will not spare you. And if you even entertain using your abilities on her, you will wish I had killed you this night for a thousand more, because I will turn everything I know on you, and you will understand pain.” Kicking the crumpled helmet so that it landed squarely in Alistair's lap. "And even then, it will not be a fraction of what your _kind_ have heaped upon her."

Shakily the young man stared at him. “Maker's Breath...what...what did they do to her to make you....”

“Pray you never find out, boy,” completely calm once more, running hands through his mussed hair.

There was a loud gulp as he examined the mangled helmet. “You...ah...you've gotten stronger?”

Sighing, Zevran relented, thankful for the change of subject. “No.”

“Maker's Breath,” rolling the helmet this way and that before glancing up at him, “But, I've seen you fight. You're...you're no raw recruit, but...this?” holding up the helmet.

“Fighting in the Crows is not like fighting here. Battle cannot be so open and obvious, boy, or nothing would get done,” shrugging. Making a hand into a partial claw that was not fully revealed in the dusky light, “Some of your bones are thick, like your shield arm, or you would not be able to bash things so hard. Mine are thick everywhere.” Rapping knuckles on his temple, “You may pack a punch, Alistair, but you would need a shovel to do much to my head. Now, enough of Crow secrets. I must see to Lahar and repair any damage you caused, if she will allow it. I advise you do not go near her for a time.”

XXX

Lelianna and Morrigan were hovering around Lahar who was doing her level best to make them go away.

“Please, I don't know why you're fussing, but I'm fine,” calm but slightly annoyed. “It was nothing.”

“I could turn him into a toad for you,” Morrigan was offering, “that is if the assassin has not relieved him of his useless head. Or I could at least lock him in a dream that makes him believe he is a toad.”

The bard shook her head, “I don't think he would do that. Zevran is a good man.”

“Ah, your vote of confidence is appreciated,” dipping a fast bow at the Orlesian. “However, dear Alistair needs some company.”

Faster than Lahar could argue, Morrigan was grabbing Leliana and heading off with her in tow. “I suppose we should see what condition the buffoon is in, else we shall never hear the end of it!”

Alone with Lahar for the first time – while she was awake, that is – since the meeting by the stream, Zevran schooled his features carefully. “He will not be doing that again, _bonita_. You have nothing at all to fear from him. He has promised never to turn his abilities on you as well.”

He was fudging that a little, for he had received neither promise from the _shemlen_ , but it was best to let her think that Alistair had volunteered such a pledge rather than be more in fear of life and limb.

“You didn't have to do that,” she wasn't looking at him exactly, but she wasn't looking away from him either. “I know he wouldn't hurt me. I should go and tell him that we're okay, and I'm not mad, that...that he had just caught me off-guard.”

Zevran moved to stand before her, wary of touching her yet. “ _Amante_ , leave it. Let it lie. Allow yourself a little time, yes? Him as well, he needs to collect his tattered pride.”

“No, Zevran, I overreacted,” shaking her head, Lahar finally met his gaze. There was that ill concealed pain in her eyes, that never forgotten horror brought close to the surface. Haunted. “I just forgot for a moment who he was, and how...innocent he is. If he had known anything about what it was like, he wouldn't have done that.”

“ _Mi cielo_ , tell me what it was like,” murmurng softly, reaching up to touch her chin with a single crooked finger. “I am here, and I am willing to listen.”

“It's...it's not fair to you, Zev,” gaze dropping away from him. “I rely on you too much. You never get any rest, and...and...you carry me too much. It isn't right to use you like that.”

Keeping the touch gentle, he pushed her chin up, urging her to look at him again. “And who would tell you such a thing, _preciosa_?”

“Zevran, it's...do you do this because you think you have to?” her fingers curling around his wrist. “Because you think you're supposed to?”

“If I were not enamored of the idea, I would have abandoned it some time ago beyond when it was necessary,” stepping closer, he didn’t increase their contact until he was sure it would not be met with fear. “Lahar, it is not as though I do much. I listen while you work out whatever problem is at hand. Occasionally I offer advice – mostly it is when you ask, that I give it.” Running his thumb along her chapped and swollen bottom lip, indicating the sexual aspect of their relationship, “And I share this with you because I like to. It is a relief from the day to day, the time we spend alone.”

She closed her eyes, but leaned away, a pained expression on her face, poorly hidden. "I'm a Warden. I need to stand on my own. I'm supposed to. And, I can't keep standing only by the will of the people around me. If I can't stand on my own, I shouldn't be leading at all.”

“No leader stands entirely on their own,” closing the remaining distance, pulling her to him in a loose hold that she would be able to leave easily. “A leader must have followers, otherwise there is nothing to lead. You must rely on that at least, you must be aware of it. Understand that. A leader is only as strong as their weakest follower, and the group is only as strong as its weakest link.” Tucking his chin over her head, “A leader is the voice, face and mind of a group. It can function without a hand or a leg, but the body suffers, as does the task set it. But it can work, _mi diosa_. Yet remove the ability to give will and voice and thought – the direction is aimless. Have you ever seen a chicken killed?”

Lahar shook her head. “No.”

“Cut the head off and the body runs around for several minutes before collapsing in a pile of its own waste,” using that to drive his point home. “None of us could lead or accept a leader other than you. You do not tolerate our differences. Your baggage and personality do not allow for us to quibble in such a way that we cannot continue forward. Without you, we will collapse after bits of us run around. Morrigan would leave, I would kill Alistair and Wynne, Sten would go off and try to find the Archdemon and die. Leliana will go to a monastery and die fighting the darkspawn. Eventually the Guild would find me, as I have taken too long, and I would be killed for dithering.” Squeezing her to him, “Surely you see this, _amante_?”

“You led just fine while I was in a coma,” it wasn't accusing, merely an observation. “If something happened to me, it would be you who could actually do something.”

Sighing into her hair, he closed his eyes. “Ah, we were assured that you would recover, and I was the only Dalish one in our number. The only expert.”

“So I lead by default, because there's no one else?” Her breath was cold, as was her face where it pressed into his hunched shoulder. “That's stupid. You do know that's stupid, right?”

Smiling, “Oh yes, I am very aware of that. But, how much do you know of history? People do what they must when there is no one else to do what must be done.”

“Practicality is the only true hero,” mumbling into his chest. “Then again, if that's true, why don't I see any statues to you around? They should be everywhere.”

Laughing in surprise at the insight, he was able to counter with a fact that was not well known, even in the Crows. “Actually, there are several in fact.”

Lahar leaned back from him, frowning in disbelief. “What? Where?”

“Hmmn, the last one I posed for was ah...what? Four years ago?” plumbing memory. “In a few gardens around the more elite villas on Antiva City's outskirts. And one positively _vulgar_ one in Lord Pednicci's bedroom.”

“Blood and stone!” giggling. “How did that happen?”

Shrugging, Zevran was glad to see the darkness fall away from her features if only for a moment and even at his expense. “It seems I got around certain circles. There was even a feud between two sculptors once over who had the rights to use me in their art.” That was an amusing memory, at least up to a point, which didn't need to be said. The disagreement had escalated to a point where they had taken contracts out on each other, and neither man had known that he was a Crow. So of course the House of Crows, being the model of efficiency that it was, gave him both assignments, though he had not completed them until after they had finished their last pieces. Aware of the fact that the complete story would be too twisted for Lahar, Zevran went with the edited events. “Sadly it resulted in their untimely deaths. Then again, the value of their last works went up exponentially. Which were both of me....”

However, Lahar was intelligent and started laughing harder. “Dear Maker! I should be horrified, but I just can't be!”

Cocking his head to the side, the Antivan pursed his lips. “And why should you be horrified?”

“Oh, don't play innocent,” giggling so hard she had to lean her head back onto his chest, “you're the one who took the contracts I bet.”

Snorting, “Ah, that is a bet I shall have to respectfully decline, as you have found me out.”

Arms slipped slowly around his waist, her words suddenly quiet, “Zev...um. Would...would you like to share a...a tent with me tonight? If...if that's acceptable to you.”

Hoping to turn the tone back to lightness in light of her decidedly black humor, Zevran murmured, “Oh? Is there something that needs assassinating in there? That is my specialty.”

“Actually,” she was looking up at him, a hand coming to touch his jaw, “I suppose so. When you stay, you chase the bad things away. There's monsters in the Fade, and they...they stay away when I'm with you.” The tiny Warden turned crimson when she added, “Maybe because you wear me out too much for them to bother with me.”

Turning his face enough so her fingertips coasted over his lips, “Hmn, and here I thought it was my sheer awesome monster killing capabilities that kept them away. Antivans find that keeping a pet assassin in their bed tends to keep the riffraff away. Excluding the assassin of course.”

“While yes, I do have to agree your tendency to make ground meat of any monsters in your way is awe inspiring,” Lahar wove their fingers together, her expression earnest, “you're still not riffraff. Nor are you anyone's pet, least of all mine.”

 _Ah, but my dear, I am,_ keeping that to himself. Rather he tugged on their twined hands. “Come then, let us test out the suitability of our pallet so that I may prepare for both wearing you out and banishing any impertinent monsters who might bother you.”

He stood next to the tent, holding the flap wide, and swept his other hand out in an inviting gesture. "After you, _amante_."

She crawled in, casting him a strange look over her shoulder as he followed her within. "Why do you call me that...all those things?" she asked quietly, pulling off her boots.

The canvas flooring was better than bare ground, and though the Crow hadn't used it in the weeks Lahar had spent keeping herself separate, he had set up their tent the same way each night. Their pallets were both combined and far nicer than what they had when they first met the Dalish. A veritable pile of blankets were made into a nest that would roll up neatly when not in use, and even a small sack that could be made into a pillow by stuffing the unnecessary blankets into it. Or dirty laundry. Which was what he usually used, at least for Lahar as she had that strange affection for the scent of the clothing he had already worn. Not that she generally used the pillow feature much, as he was usually relegated to that status. However, Zevran had replicated the way they had come to agree upon as theirs for the set up of their small sleeping space, minus only two things: his Warden and her pack. 

Sitting on the pallet beside her, copying her movements and discarding his own footwear, “ _Perdonemé, mi hermosa pequeña_. It is a long standing habit of calling beautiful things as they are. That and,” shifting as he shucked out of his shirt, holding it out to her, “I have always felt odd saying them in Fereldan.”

Lahar’s hand reached out to take his shirt from his grasp, hand hovering with indecision for a moment. “Why is that?”

Setting the tunic aside, he went to work on the stays of her short robes, figuring that that would be the fastest way to get them back in normal territory. “It is a coarse language, no poetry. The flow, it is all wrong.” 

“Oh,” going to her knees the tiny Warden wiggled free of her outer layers.

Slipping his palms over her shoulders, he kissed her forehead. “ _Preciosa_ , it means ‘precious’.” Cupping her cheeks, Zevran nuzzled at her face, lips not quite touching hers. “Because you are in many ways.” He wanted to rid Lahar of that haunted look in her eyes, and if that meant he had to be like this, he could do that. Up until now he had not used words in this way with her, shying away from it, not wanting to murmur sweet nothings that were often nothing more than empty air. “ _Princesa_ , because to me, you are like a little snow princess,” this garnered him a small giggle, which might have to do with how light his touch was on the small of her back or the sentiment itself. Unhooking her breast-bind, “ _Mi niña_ for my girl, and see, does that not sound strange in Ferelden? The layers of meaning are different here.” Dipping down so he could swirl his tongue over one of her nipples, “ _Bonita_ , beautiful girl, and you are. Look at this face you have,” running a finger along her jaw, “you are pretty and lovely.”

Lahar’s eyes darted over his face, searching him for sincerity. “Surely you’ve seen better.”

“Of face or body – I would be lying _pequeña_ , my little one, if I said that I had not,” tracing the winged arches of her eyebrows and the high lines of her cheekbones. “Yet, they were not you. A pretty face or a voluptuous body does not make up for ugly insides, did you not say this as well? You are rare in that you are outside what you are inside. But make no mistake – you are _far_ from plain.”

“If you say so,” uncertain, but clearly not sure whether to question him or to accept it. 

His personal vote was for her to accept his words. _Why is it different to say these things to her? I have said much similar and intense things to others. However, I did tell Alistair I would fix whatever damage he had done with his reckless, unthinking assault._

“Mmn, I say so, _hermosa pequeña mia_ , my lovely little one,” picking and choosing the layers of meaning that were closest he could find in Ferelden, rather than literal ones. Urging her to lay back on the pile of bedding, he hovered, braced on one arm so he could run his other hand over her torso. “ _Mi cielo_ , for my sky. It is a sweet thing, in Ferelden the closest I can think of is ‘my sweet’, but calling you ‘ _mi dulce_ ’ just sounds odd.” Laying slow, open mouthed kisses over her chest, working his way down to the underside of a round breast. “Perhaps I could call you, _mi dulce vida_ , my sweet life, would you like that?” 

Fingers went to his hair, taking the braids out so she could work the digits through the strands. “I only want to hear what you think. If that’s what you think, then you can say it. I don’t want...empty things.”

Pausing, the Antivan slid back up to her face, so he could look her right in the eye. “I could serenade you with many of those things. But I have not as you are right, empty things do not belong between us. So I have only ever said what I have thought with you, when I speak.”

“Good,” she leaned up, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, hugging him. “Me too, just...just so you know.”

Pressing down on her so he could push his arms under her back, returning the hug, “I know, _mi diosa_ , my goddess, my dangerous, deadly, sexy goddess.”

“That is over the top, you realize that, right?” He could feel her lips curving into a smile against his neck though. “I’ll grant you the deadly, but sexy...not so much.”

The Crow chuckled, not relinquishing his tight hold on her, partially because she didn’t seem ready to release him either. “Ah, you do not know the mind of a man. It is a dark and strange place, a man’s mind is. There is this thing you do when you are confused and unguarded. Your nose it...crinkles. And your lips...they purse, becoming plump and pink. It is all very...ah...enticing.” 

Demonstrating the very behaviour he had just described, his Warden tipped her head back so she could see him. “Enticing? What? Why?”

“Because, it is very much the same face you make right after you have gained an orgasm, and it reminds me of that fact every time.” Leaving unsaid what should be rather obvious – that with each reminder, he wished to see that face again. 

“Oh,” squirming under him, hands stroking the backs of his shoulders. 

He could tell she was simply trying to gain more contact with his skin and not being purposefully sensual. That did not detract from the pleasantness of cool hands touching the tightness of his muscles. Alistair may not have done any damage to him, but Zevran’s body was not so used to flexing that way anymore with no warning. Possibly a hallmark of age, _Tchk, but it is most likely an indication of how easy I’ve been taking it since...Rinna._ And as usual he shied away from that thought.

Distracting himself, he pulled away from Lahar, returning once again to kissing her body, taking a meandering path to her hips. “Mmn, what else are you? Ah, I know.” Pressing his mouth to linen covered pubic mound as he breathed deep of the earthiness that was ‘woman’. “ _Mi tierra_ , my earth, to go with my sky. I am kept here, alive, with you overhead and you below me. See? You are my goddess of earth and air, elements you smell of, that you wield.” Pulling at the ties of her smallclothes, where the little knots were at her hips, “You may lead, but you trust me to be on top. To protect you, to travel your lands, in ways you have not let others.”

“But...but I have, I...I let...” her muscles stood in sudden relief.

Stopping what he was doing immediately; he had no intention whatsoever of frightening her, not right now, for she was in a delicate state, no matter the strong front she presented. “No, you did not let them do anything. They took. There was no ‘letting’. But with me, you ‘let’. You even ask sometimes. You allow me what you have never allowed another.”

Rolling onto his knees, Zevran grabbed his long forgotten shirt, tugging at her shoulder so she would half sit up. Pulling the linen and silk blended tunic over her head and watching as she pushed her arms through the sleeves, he felt frighteningly protective. Tonight was probably too soon anyway to expect sex, and besides, he was _tired_. Not only that, but his head still hurt. An armored elbow to the skull may not crack his, but it still left a good headache. For a moment he debated removing his trews, but held off, instead lying down beside his mage. She snagged the blankets and got them situated around them, even tucking the fabric around his feet, before she snuggled into him.

“Do you...not want to?” Peach soft cheek rubbing over his shoulder, arm draped around his middle, fingers touching the ties to his pants.

Licking his lips, he stilled his woman’s nervous plucking. “We do not have to. It has been a long day, and we are both tired.”

Propping herself up on an elbow, Lahar worked at the knots, loosening them. “I can do whatever you need me to.”

Allowing it, Zevran made himself relax. “If you wish to touch me, _amante_ , my lover, that would be...a relief.”

It was only after Lahar was curled up asleep, that he realized that she had avoided answering him about anything he asked. Again. Rubbing his forehead, the Crow fought the embrace of sleep for a while longer. _Always side-stepping me, changing the subject without seeming to,_ arching his back just enough for his spine to give a soft 'pop', _Tchk, either I am losing my touch, or she is simply that masterful. I wonder – does she even realize she does this? Is it on purpose?_ He pushed one of his legs between hers as he rolled onto his side, making sure he didn't dislodge her head from the pillow of his folded arm. _Or is it some survival instinct?_

The thought was a plague, yet a goodly portion of the Antivan was sure she didn't do it to be difficult, nor to be maddening. Nuzzling at the nape of her neck, pushing some of her hair away, Zevran kissed the skin with uncharacteristic affection, _At least it makes her interesting._ By now he usually had lovers completely broken down and put into their respective compartments. People were not that tricky in general. Also by now, he would generally be bored with someone so easily picked apart.

Lahar was an enigma, not so much a thing that was hard to understand – for she was rather easy in that regard – but difficult to know fully. Much like he was. And _again_ with the similarities. As though they were like opposite ends of a pendulum's swing.

XXX

A good night's sleep was exactly what he had needed most, Zevran decided. However it was tempered by the fact that Lahar had still left him to guard the party's cart. Which meant he was once more in Wynne's company. Wynne, who had been shooting him not so surreptitious glowers. Or as close to glowers as the old woman would admit to giving. The old bat was dignified in her disapproval, carrying herself as regally as any queen.

After several hours of such treatment, his own irritation finally flared. “Sometimes I feel like I am still in Antiva.”

Morrigan was walking beside him as usual. “Oh? And why would that be, elf?”

“Such as I tend to incur the looks that could kill from many,” shrugging. “In Antiva, men walking with their daughters would often interpose themselves between myself and their offspring. As if the very sight of an armed elf would sully them. Mothers would hide their faces, looking away upon seeing me frequently.”

“‘Tis a fact that perhaps they just thought you ugly,” casting him a glance.

“Sadly, no. If that were the case I would not have minded much,” rubbing his chin in mock thought. “Wynne, could you perhaps hazard a guess as to why they would treat me in such a way?”

The mage chose her words carefully, “I cannot claim to know. It might have been your bearing or your...overt personality.”

“Ah, but in Antiva all are gilded in sensuality,” waving it off. “Surely there must have been some reason for me to be subjected to such cruelty?”

“Your impertinence and manner speak loudly to anyone. You shout out your devil-may-care attitude, and there is only ever one thing on your mind,” the old woman said, as if she could even claim to know what was on his mind.

 _Ugh, you are as one-sided as a Chantry argument!_ silently fuming.

Instead he countered, “Ah, but such as I, an assassin and an elf – our frequently short lives are far too cruel! If I did not find joys and laughter where I could, I would never have any.” Feigning a sad sniff, “Oh, Fortuna, she is harsh to we elves. It makes me wish to cry...”

Dripping disapproval, “Do keep your filthy self away from my bosom.”

“Oh, but I wish to cry, my darling Wynne, and your bosom looks so soothing,” crooning at her, half hoping to incite her to say something that would invite him to shoot off a verbal beating, so he could vent at her while of course maintaining his facade of 'playing well with others'. He didn't want to give Wynne any ammunition to use against him with Lahar. Not that he thought she would listen, but the superior woman had already proved that she could guilt his Warden into setting him aside. Hopefully it wouldn't work a second time, but he was unwilling to chance it.

Dripping scorn, “I do not understand why Lahar would waste her time with a...philanderer like you.”

Pouncing on the opening she so nicely gave him, “Ah, but it is her choice, is it not? She is an adult and as such can make her own choices, all by herself, just like the big girl she is.” Pointing out what should be obvious, “It is her life, and not yours, yes? Then just as a parent watches their child take their first steps and first falls, should you not allow her to take her own falls and steps without interference?”

“Oh, your words may be wise, but your intent is not. Seeking to put me off in my counsel for your own ends is not the hallmark of a good man.” She drew herself up. “My advice is only given so that she may keep her attention squarely where it should be, upon the Blight and her duties as a Warden.”

Morrigan's pace slowed, a sound of complete disgust issuing from her throat, with which Zevran agreed completely. As though Lahar’s taking a lover would keep her from her duties. _Pfah! Meddlesome and superior bitches should know their places!_

Narrowing his eyes, “And how exactly does my being her Bonded and lover keep her from such a focus?” Pointing out, “When have I ever sought to distract her from this? When has she undertaken some quest in my name to ease the burdens of guilt? Which, I may add, she has done for you. We returned to the Dalish not four days after leaving so that you could find information on your lost apprentice. And then we sought him out. Was that not a distraction?”

“No, it was a kindness that I am grateful for.” Obviously unable to see the flaw in her logic, no matter that he was pushing it squarely in her face.

The Crow could feel his facial muscles trying to twitch in irritation. _There is no arguing logic with the devoutly thick headed. Why do I even bother?_ Counting to a thousand via prime numbers, Zevran forcibly held his tongue firmly in his mouth, or he would say things that were not only rude, but counterproductive. But oh how tempting it was to simply let loose.

Rubbing his forehead, “I have nothing invested here except to serve Lahar and discharge my blood debt in return for life and freedom. Since my Warden serves to combat the Blight, this means that as I serve her, I serve to combat the Blight as well. What more can you possibly expect?”

“I expect for you to cease distracting her.” The Circle mage cast him a glance, “But I see I've made you angry. You don't like being taken to task for your ills. Fortunately, I am not sad to do so. Eventually, someone will put you in your place.”

“ _Braska,_ you are a judgmental, ignorant and truly blind woman,” shaking his head, his fingers going to a small vial in his baldric after he slipped a needle from an inner pocket near his belt, dipping it in the vial of magebane. “You cannot even see the world from the way you carry yourself, nose so high in the air. Can you truly be so blind that you cannot understand that people like me exist so that people like you can have the chance to have some sort of choice in your lives? And you look down on me for it? Someone has to do the dirty work, whether we have a choice in what we become or are forced into it! It could just as easily have been you becoming what I am, if not for an accident of birth!”

“I would _never_ sink to such a level,” Wynne snapped at him waspishly.

“Oh, it stings having the shoe on the other foot?” Zevran moved closer to her so he could nick her with the magebane dipped needle before she could guess his intent.

Wynne sucked in a sharp breath, clapping a hand over her other. “You! What have you done?! I knew it – assassin and whore you are, pricking everything in your way to get rid of it!”

Catching the woman as she crumpled, Zevran snarled. “I am a whore, a very highly priced, skilled and artistic one, thank you.” Seeing the sudden fear in her eyes brought him no joy, “I used only enough magebane to keep you malleable, so that perhaps you will listen to what I am saying. It may be a vain hope that you hear my words and comprehend them, but for Lahar's sake I will try. So, I ask you, is the healer better than the Templar? Is the barrel maker better than the smith? They are jobs and artisans. They are roles in society that must be filled.” Lifting her to his shoulders, Zevran carried her back to Bodhan's cart, depositing her in it. “And so you despise me, no matter that I fill a function that someone must always fill. You cannot see that I am a person beyond a job description. How like the Tevinter Archons you are, handing down judgments, never mind that it is not your job. Would you like the power of life and death to be in your hands? How many would you rule as being unnecessary, just as they did? How many slaves would you label as evil for the simple fact that they do what they are ordered to so that they may have an illusion of life?”

Wynne's mouth opened and closed futilely, struggling to grind out, “Lahar...will hear of this.”

“Oh yes, she will, as I will tell her.” Whistling sharply for Ser Prize, he pointed at the mage. “Sit on her. Do not let her fall from the cart. I shall go find us a camp now.” Bodhan and Sandal were staring at him, having long since stopped the wagon as soon as Wynne began to falter moments ago. Waving a hand at them, “Do not worry yourselves, my friends, she will be well shortly. But now I must take my leave to search for a camp.”

Morrigan was smirking in satisfaction, nodding at him as he left. He knew she was capable of guarding the cart on her own, that and Bodhan was handy enough in a fight when pressed. As was Sandal. Not only that, Zevran didn't think he would have to go far afield to find a place to spend the night. The bronzed elf felt better and worse for having let his temper get the better of him, but he was sick of dealing with Wynne and her bitter pill presence. There had been enough people in his life in Antiva peering down at him like a bug, that more of it when it was uncalled for made him sick. And to judge Lahar as being foolish for finding even a modicum of pleasantness in her entirely unpleasant life made him so ill with disgust he sometimes felt like vomiting. No, as unwise as it had been to poison Wynne, it was that or resort to killing the old woman in retribution. Zevran was an assassin, a killer – not a murderer. He didn't kill people simply out of passion and anger.

And not for anything – well, almost anything – would Zevran sink to that level. Certainly not for the likes of Wynne. People like her weren't worth it.


	15. Chapter 15

XXX  
Murder 14  
XXX

“Look, when he ripped me apart for the...the other night, I can understand. But...but _this_?” a finger was jabbed in Zevran’s direction, as the Templar railed. “This is going too far! He _poisoned_ Wynne! Not by accident, he’s not even denying it. He’s _admitting_ what he did! Like it was completely normal!”

Zevran sat beside the fire, Morrigan right next to him and Ser Prize providing his hefty back as a rest. The party was mostly trying to pretend nothing was going on, with Leliana somewhere fussing over Wynne, and Sten pacing the perimeter with his usual stoicism. But the Crow, knowing he was the center of dispute, was not about to up and leave the chance for a good show. _Entertainment is hard to come by out here in the wilds....tchk, best not waste it._

Lahar was calmly – as always – standing in that relaxed, overly patient method she used with people, “He is a Crow. He is Antivan. Poison goes hand in hand with life, the way kisses go with flowers.”

The Templar would have none of that and was gearing up for a grander tirade.

Leaning towards the Chasind, “Would you care to make a wager, lovely Morrigan?”

“I care not for what spoils you would offer up,” the witch crossed her arms, the many necklaces and bangles that Zevran had found out were gifts from Lahar chiming dully with the motion.

“Not even if it is something that would aggravate the Chantry boy?” Zevran put his folded hands behind his head and stretched his legs out before him, crossed at the ankles.

That was an offer he knew Morrigan wouldn’t be able to resist, “I’m listening, elf. ‘Twould be good if your wager were truly worthwhile.”

“I propose as my spoils, and in this you win as well, that I make dinner this evening,” knowing how much Flemeth’s daughter hated the nights when that was her duty.

“And should I win?” arching a brow at him.

Shrugging, “Anything you wish. Ah, I know, I shall cook dinner for your next seven turns.”

“So either way you would still be doing the cooking,” nose and brow crinkling. “Fine, as you wish it, ‘tis your choice. Tell me of this gamble you propose.”

“I say, that before a clear winner is proven, this entire argument will be moot,” not revealing the fact that in the distance he could hear the clopping of hooves and the occasional swear urging some pack animal along.

Morrigan took only a moment before nodding sharply, “I accept your wager.”

“--and yet you defend him! She is a sweet, little old lady. What has she ever done to hurt anyone? And he...he...he!” Alistair was stomping back and forth gesticulating.

“I am not defending him, Alistair, I am only stating fact.” Lahar was watching the Templar with veiled annoyance, annoyance that only Zevran picked up on from knowing her so well. “I highly doubt his actions were without some provocation.”

Alistair swung towards the diminutive mage, “We only have his word about that!”

“Actually, we don’t. He never said so,” Lahar shrugged.

Zevran stopped Ser Prize from barking by patting the Mabari in a soothing manner. The cart was getting closer, and he could tell it was just about to enter their little encampment. No one other than Ser Prize and himself had noticed as yet.

“Andraste’s soiled knickers, you stupid, long-eared ass, quit your dragging!” rang out.

Everyone leapt to their feet, except Zevran, who smiled to himself and went to their campfire to begin making the night’s meal.

“Who are you?” Lahar’s voice was even and clear.

A _shemlen_ perched atop his little cart, tugging at the reins, commanding his donkey to stop. “Levi’s the name, Levi Dryden. And you’re a hard person to find, Warden. Been looking for you all over.”

What followed was of little interest to the Antivan, some tale spun about dishonored names and rebellion, mixed with Wardens. It would have interested him at almost any other time, but the Crow simply hummed to himself a little sea shanty, checking the food from time to time.

Placing some on one of the wooden plates the party used, he toted it over to Alistair a ‘friendly’ smile on his face, “Ah, our repast is finished.”

With obvious wariness, the young man accepted the food, “It looks weird. Like always.”

“Tchk, such hurtful words, Alistair. They are unbecoming of such a good Andrastian as yourself,” shaking his head mournfully. Waiting just long enough for the Templar to have begun eating it, “It is proper Antivan food, and while true much of what I have access to is not so varied as I am used to, I did use what was available. My own special blend as it were.”

Alistair paused, choking on the food, “What?!”

“Oh, nothing, just my own personal Antivan Crow touch,” clapping him on the shoulder and gesturing towards Lahar who was going for a second helping. “It always goes down well with my fairest Bonded mage.”

_Ah, such pleasures you give me Alistair, so wonderful to watch you squirm. After all, a Crow who wastes not, wants not._

XXX

“I take it we go north, to this...Soldier’s Peak in the morning?” braiding Lahar’s hair now that it was well brushed into a soft gloss.

His mage wiggled around on their pallet, playing with the laces at the neck of the shirt she wore, “Well, it would be a good base of operations. A place to regroup from time to time. And it would be defensible. Why? Do you think it’s a bad idea?”

Zevran shook his head, plaiting the gentle waves tightly, “Not at all, _amante_. It is a fine idea, but we will be going through inhabited land, and we may come across groups of refugees. I only wish to warn you about them, that is all.”

Lahar rose to her knees after he tied off the braid, turning towards him and wrapping her arms around his waist, laying her cheek on his chest. Slim fingers ran up and down his spine. Reveling in her gentle manner in the small embrace, he could do nothing but return it, allowing himself to admit that yes, it was nice, this uncomplicated thing, this undemanding touch.

“Your heartbeat is so strong,” her ear pressed over his breast. “It’s like a war drum. I think it could drown out the roar of the Archdemon.”

Using the knuckles of one hand he stroked a cheek, “You hear it more now?”

“We’re too close to Ostagar still,” sighing before she pulled away to scoot under the covers and hold them open for him. “All I want is to make the wicked little whispers that sometimes almost make sense go away.”

Slipping his hands under the hem of the shirt, he began kneading her hips, “Every step takes us farther away, _hermosa pequena_ , but let me help you forget those voices tonight.” Leaning in to nuzzle her face, lips sought his as he murmured, “This is our time and will not be interrupted by those who seek to pluck at us.”

One of his Bonded’s hands smoothed over his shoulder and down his side, tucking in close after the soothing kiss they shared, “May I...do anything for you?”

Rubbing his chin over her temple, the Crow mulled over his choices. Lahar asking if she could do anything _for_ him was new, and he wanted to encourage it. Yet, he also did not want to push her too far, too fast. _These times_ are ours, mi encantadora _. In our flimsy tent we stay for a few hours, banishing the things we must do in the morning, and the miles we walked in day’s light. A short period to recuperate and do nothing but exist as ourselves._ And this meant that their brief minutes awake and alone with one another must be savored, like fine _café_ or wine.

Pulling aside the blankets with a few tugs of his legs, Zevran cupped her cheek, “You have not had much chance to explore me, _mi vida_. And I wish you to be as familiar with me as I am with you.”

Lavender light filled the tent, augmenting the fire’s glow that seeped through the canvas walls. Lahar’s gaze raked across his body, almost like a soft physical touch, and he watched as she licked her lips, uncertain. Yet she reached out, all the same, and laid her hand across his stomach, tracing the lines of the scars there with her fingertips.

“I...haven’t really...paid much attention, I’m sorry,” the look she cast him was half-shy, half-curious. That strange mix that she would give him when she was unsure how to proceed when it came to their forays into the sexual territory of the bed. “I’m so used to you without clothing that I sometimes...don’t notice.”

Quoting what she had once told him, “‘Skin is skin, everyone has it’, _amante_. I am comfortable in mine, and I have forgone clothing with you as much as possible so that you are used to me.” Reaching out and taking a wayward curl behind her ear between thumb and forefinger, “Myself and my nudity went from something that simply existed to something that might be threatening and changed into something that would be pleasurable.” Playing with the bit of hair gently, “And then you became so comfortable with it that you no longer saw it and were able to do things with me.”

Her expression turned guilty, her palm pressing on his stomach, radiating the chill that had at some point become soothing to him, “I’m sorry, you know. I seem to bungle things rather badly when it comes to you. And, I worry sometimes.”

“Come, _mi tierra_ , tell me what you worry over,” sliding his hand down to cup her jaw, thumb rubbing her bottom lip, before slipping his palm along the side of her neck, massaging the column tenderly.

“It’s difficult to put into words,” scooting over to him, her fingers unconsciously tracing the planes of his abdomen and hip. “You’re always so steady, rock solid. Unshakable. It is so very easy to forget that you may need things, and since you never complain or tell me...I could easily take advantage of you, Zev. I worry that I do.”

Zevran pursed his lips, “Lahar, _mi amante_ , you worry for no reason on this. When have you taken advantage of me? You have leaned on me when necessary, and not one iota more.”

Frosty, tundra colored eyes deepened in a soft swirl in the fey witchlight, “Can I trust you to tell me if I am?”

Leaning up to her, the Antivan pulled his mage into his arms, “I shall give you my oath if you will do me the courtesy of leaning on me when you should.”

“When should I lean on you? I’ve...never really had anyone _to_ lean on, and it’s a heady experience to have that. Please promise me you’ll tell me if I put too much burden on you,” pleading with him. “I want you to have the chance to lean on someone too. But I don’t know what it is you need or want from me.”

Plucking her long braid, he flipped the tail so that he could use the end to tickle her nose, “Until the Crows make themselves known, what I gain from you is something slightly more nebulous than physical support.”

The tip of Lahar’s nose scrunched and unscrunched, “So long as you know I’m here for you too, Zevran, then I swear I’ll lean on you too.”

“ _Perfecto_! That settles the matter then,” glad she had not asked him what he gained from her presence. These frequent and strange moments of utter consideration she turned his way, the trust she imparted when she arched and called his name in completion or the smile she turned on him sometimes when no one was paying attention were far more potent than any spell could ever be. “Then what I wish now is for you to indulge your curiosity. The only prying eyes in this tent are mine, and you should be used to those by now.”

Releasing Lahar, he flopped back, tucking his hands behind his head. _I have never seen snow but from a distance or when you summon it,_ watching as the Warden bit her lip in concentration, obviously having to exercise her willpower to look below his neck. Zevran was sure that she kept her gaze so firmly fixed to his face out of respect and consideration, not fear of him or intimidation. _Yet there is such a frozen wasteland that you wear like a cloak, blanketing you,_ mi vida _. Protecting you from everyone else. Even from me._ Locking his fingers in his own hair, the Antivan kept his bearing outwardly relaxed, while inside he was in a tumult. 

There was no callus on the finger that touched his collarbone, feather light, gentle as a baby’s breath. It was hard to imagine this young woman hurting a fly, let alone unleashing forces of nature and pure destruction, like some avenging Spirit. Inside, Zevran wondered what sort of fields and orchards she had. Would there be sunshine? Birdsong and buzzing bees? That was the sort of place she belonged. Dancing over the ground like a flitting butterfly, laughing and smiling, her eyes wide and child-like. Experiencing joy and spreading it from one place to the next. 

The smile that always tugged at her lips when she allowed herself to indulge in the little things that others took for granted was like a treasure chest filled with valuables that he had stumbled upon utterly by accident. He couldn’t explain why it was he wanted to see Lahar smiling and happy, but he couldn’t lie to himself and say that he was entirely unaffected by those reactions that she shared with him. For some reason, he had found the hidden valley in that wasteland, fed by some hot spring that welled up from the ground. 

“The skin feels different here,” her voice was soft, as she stroked the right side of his ribcage. “But not like the other tattooed skin -- that just feels like skin. But this,” laying her palm flat on the symbols for fire and wind that wrapped around his side and down to his hip, like a partial shirt, bits of bare skin creating a design out of negative space, “feels strange.”

“Boiling soup,” having to dredge up the memory. “It has...a tendency to burn when someone throws it at you. I escaped the worst of it. But there is only so much poultices can do to repair the look of burnt flesh. So I covered it. A burn like that would have been too distinctive.”

Her lips made a little ‘o’, and she quickly leaned down and pressed her lips against each ridge of his ribs. When she straightened back up, she lay both hands over the tattooed flesh, barely covering any of the large design, “But it’s such a big tattoo. Wouldn’t that be distinctive too?”

Smirking, “One would think, yes? But no, not particularly. Anyone over the age of twelve tends to have their bodies...modified to one degree or another.” 

“You have so many,” the delicate touch was careful, brushing over the puckered, star shaped scar under his left nipple. “This isn’t from a blade, is it?”

Hooding his eyes, the Crow took in the intent expression on his lover’s face, “Arrow. Through the lung. There should be a matching scar on my back.”

Another kiss was pressed to him, and then the way her hoarfrost eyes went soft, near glowing with something he supposed was tenderness, “I’m sorry. I really shouldn’t keep asking. You probably meant something else by exploring.”

 _Truly,_ mi tierra, _I was not sure what I wished you to do_ , refraining from saying that. Instead, he slowly unwound a hand from his hair so he could touch her chin, biding her to come closer, using the same care in that small contact as she had with him. “ _Hermosa pequña diosa mia_ , I said for you to satisfy your curiosity, did I not?”

“You did,” she agreed easily. “That doesn’t mean I should just...poke at you.”

Unable to hold back the chuckle, “Your idea of a poke is interesting indeed. I wonder how much softer your tender touches would be if you were giving what you considered a caress?”

“Zev...?” Lahar was leaning down over him, close enough for the material from his too large shirt to brush over him. “I want to give you something, but I don’t know what. I want to make you laugh more like that. Or to smile.”

“You need not give me anything to make me smile, but your own," feeling just a touch silly saying something that amounted to the sorts of words he gave most people. Perhaps it was the intent and that he actually found himself meaning it. “Life is not all grimness and hard work. One of the measures of life is the ability to live. And the living are able to smile.” Laying his fingers at the corner of her mouth, “It is good when I see you amongst the living.” 

Lahar dipped in closer still and paused, “You make it safe for me to smile.” 

Tugging Lahar to lay beside him as he rolled onto his side, “You have said this or similar before.” Propping on his elbow, tracing her brows, nose and lips with his eyes, “Have you truly given no thought to the fact that as a mage and Warden, you are fully capable of defending yourself against unwanted things? That you are a force unto yourself, and that....”

His mage shook her head vehemently, “That isn’t the kind of safety I’m talking about. I know I could stop just about anyone.” 

Zevran licked his lips, cocking his head in surprisingly intense confusion, “I do not understand.”

“I’m not good with words,” she shrugged, burrowing into his chest. “I don’t know how to explain it, so maybe you should just...take it for fact. You make it safe to smile. You make it safe to sleep. You...let me drop my own walls, and step between me and the things that make the walls necessary. So...so I don’t have to work so hard to keep them up, because I know you’ll be there to keep them distant if I slip up for a moment or two.”

This dependency was frightening, even as it was the very thing he had worked hard to cultivate. He couldn’t pretend he would be able to simply walk away after Lahar had served his needs, because for the first time he was truly responsible for another’s well-being. If, for whatever reason, he did leave Lahar, she would be... _Forever ruined. Fortuna, why must you put such in my path? What have I done to anger you?_ He was a Crow, a Master Crow, one who had survived his _Culminacíon_ and had every ounce of emotion scrubbed from him, every sense of self and individuality replaced by an outline handed down from outside. Zevran had no loyalties beyond the Guild.

At least he shouldn’t. 

_And yet I fought the Guild. I came here with an intent other than to fulfill my contract,_ staring down at the tattooed neck that peeked between her coiled braid and the collar of his shirt. Closing his eyes, Zevran pressed his face into the crown of Lahar’s head, giving her a firm squeeze, uncertain. Once upon a time he would have thought there was something here more than the obvious. The piece that had lived before he became _uhalamlin_ , the one that found meaning in little joys. A piece that could actually feel those joys, those precious seconds. 

And disgustingly enough, when he could feel most intensely was when Lahar was nearby. When she was laughing, when she was fighting, annoyed, happy or in ecstasy. When she was confused – all of those things. It was like there was some strange cord that hung between them that he didn’t understand. The disgust was a trained response, that much the Antivan knew for sure. One that was ingrained over and over through years, that taught one to view any attachments as not only unnecessary, but repugnant. It was a tactic that was effective, particularly amongst the younger members of the Guild. Yet he was an adult, one who was years past his _Culminacíon_ , past the time when he would be allowed to form some masking attachments. 

Zevran had always rejected those choices, content to stay in a small townhouse with Rinna and Taliesen, and no one but each other for company when it was desired. Frequently it wasn’t, and the Antivan would spend his free time on the roof, staring at the stars. Rinna or Taliesin would join him, but both tended to leave him to his own devices. _Thirty odd years spent amongst the Crows. Twenty years and more with Rinna and Taliesin. Attachments. Bah! No escaping them._

Repressing a sigh, he tightened his embrace further. _Foolish man that I am, I go and swear an oath. One as binding as any the Guild lays into us. To protect her, until she releases me of it. Pfah! Imbecile!_ Zevran could only guess at whether he was an imbecile for having sworn the oath, or because he hoped she wouldn’t release him from it. _She does not need much physical protection, not any more. Not beyond nagging her to eat, as though I am some_ nursemaid _. But she needs someone to shield her interior valleys from invasion, so that she can have moments of peace._

So very simple. 

So very enticing.

So very, very easy to betray.

Shuddering once, Zevran kissed Lahar’s forehead, “Whatever demons may come, I shall protect you from them, as long as it is your will.”

 _Fortuna, I am a cursed man, her will is my desire,_ swallowing in aggravation and the sick twisting of years of training in his stomach, _and damn me to the Pit for it._

XXX

_It was different here. There was no barren sepia and decayed yellow, nor the image of a monastery. It wasn’t a place from anything real, not that Zevran could tell. At least, not in his experience at all._

_Crow appeared beside him, and Zevran spared him a glance, “So, what tortures do you wish to visit upon me this evening?”_

_“You ask her questions, ones she never quite answers,” giving the impression of a smirk. “She is wily enough to have been a Crow, with her ability to deflect even the Great Zevran.”_

_Sinking to his haunches, the Antivan scooped up some of the hard packed ice and dirt. This was the Fade, and he could do nothing but feel a shadow of what the materials would truly be like, as he didn’t have anything to compare it to in his own memories. Dusting his hands off, he scanned landscape. It was flat, bleak, icy-gray white._

_Monotonous. Utterly devoid. Unending broken emptiness._

_But for all that, not entirely barren as there was a certain stark beauty to it._

_Shifting around on one foot, the Crow gnawed his lip, “I shall not push her farther than she can go. What concern is it of yours?”_

_“I have direct access to you,” the admission making Zevran’s hackles rise, no matter that he repressed the urge to attack. “Mages have the ability to become aware in the Fade rather easily. And because of that they’re unpredictable. Alistair is a Templar, and I’d rather not deal with him meddling in the Fade. He has too many desires that are hidden and would be easily taken advantage of. We don’t need any demons having their attentions drawn to such an idealistic youth.”_

_Remembering the lesson of not looking directly up, Zevran flicked another glance to Crow. “So, you come to me. I am neither idealistic, nor do I have desires that are so easily fulfilled by demons. And I am not powerful the way a mage would be. A safe bet, then.”_

_Zevran didn’t think to ask why not the bard or the Sten. Either was too alien or too idealistic. Between the two of them it didn’t particularly matter. Zevran was the only real choice. In the Fade he was virtually defenseless beyond his willpower. And he was far too logical to be tempted by easy pleasures._

_“What will you do when she releases you from your oath?” Crow asked, neither denying nor acknowledging the hypothesis._

_Resting his weight forward on his knees, the Antivan tilted his head, eyes closed, giving himself a moment to think. “I do not know. I think it mostly a moot point as we will all die in this Blight, in all likelihood.”_

_“Then why stay?” Crow seemed taken aback by his answer._

_“Because dying is dying, yet it would be more interesting to go out with some real flare rather than simply throwing myself at a sword,” bouncing up to stretch. “Perhaps I like the facsimile of actual freedom. The illusion of something worthwhile can be as meaningful as having the actual thing. The difference is that there won’t be someone singing glorious happily ever afters and they rode off into the sunset togethers. It will be more real because it was cut short, and no one has to think on the eventuality of aging and dealing with each other day to day for decades.” Crossing his arms, Zevran turned to look at Crow. “Perhaps it is a penance of sorts, to show myself what I am supposed to know and to feel as a person, when I do not feel things in the natural way.”_

_“Master Crows break training all the time,” Crow pointed out. “You, Taliesen, Rinna – every day together past your_ Culminacíones _were a study in bucking the rules. Every day together before then was such a thing as well.”_

_Zevran inclined his head, admitting that openly, “Of course. But it was tacitly sanctioned. Mama Lumia being who she was, she ensured that her baby didn’t wind up like his older brothers. If that meant breaking some rules, well that was her prerogative.”_

_~~~~~_

_She was being picked up in strong arms, tucked in close to the warmth, while fingers plucked at her wild hair. “Aiesh, my little Lahar. How did you get so dirty? Look at you, picking up things everywhere you go.”_

_Ducking her head, she didn’t look up at her papa, only huddled against him. Parts of her hurt very badly. Parts she had been told were dirty. All she wanted was to curl up and stay with him right here, not to have to go out into the courtyard where the other children were. The ones who yelled and screamed at her, threw things while the big men and women ignored everything going on. Her only escapes were her papa, when she could risk running to him, or hiding behind the shrubs._

_“Come now, can you give me a smile?” soothing and cleansing her papa’s voice was. As was the hand he smoothed over her rebelliously snarled dark hair. “My little one, will you not tell me what ails you?”_

_Darting a tiny glance up at him, she could only burrow in closer. If she told him, he would think her dirty too. And she couldn’t bear that. He was the only clean thing here._

_~~~~~_

_Zevran gasped, doubling over at the shadowy agony of feeling what a far, far too small little girl’s body had felt years ago. Lahar could have been barely more than a toddler, the hands that had been his in the memory were tiny, chubby digited things, that would have a hard time wrapping around three of his adult fingers. On hands and knees he gasped, hands made into fists, alternating between scrabbling at the wasteland and pounding it in frustration and other emotions. It had been years since he had felt the urge to scream in anguish. To cry out and vent pain in guttural noises that had no meaning but their primal nature._

_“How many more are like that?” struggling to keep his voice level, even when it cracked distressingly. Was there no safety, or even the illusion of it?_

_“No, there wasn’t,” Crow said, sitting beside him. “Are you ready for someone else’s, your own, or another of hers?”_

_Slamming a fist into the ground, “Why do you show me these things? What do you_ gain _from this sick circus?!”_

_Heaving a sigh, “A familiar pain then....”_

_“No,” gritting his teeth, Zevran rocked back, flopping onto his ass, head buried in his hands. “Another of hers then.”_

_~~~~~_

_The library was at least quiet. Or, well, somewhat quiet. Selecting a slim tome, she walked normally as though she were going to one of the usual reading sections. But there was a small place where the always watching Templars could not see, a bend in the corner, a place that only a child or someone as skinny as she was could slip into. Sucking in a deep breath, she wriggled between the bookcases. This would soon be a place she could no longer seek refuge, as her breasts were growing, however they were barely there at the moment._

_So for the time being, she could escape to this place. Finding a dark corner, Lahar dug out the small fragment of lightning rock Jowan had given her two years ago. It cast enough light for her to read by if she hunched in close to her book, but not so much that any would notice it. No one but her knew of this place, not even the small children, for they were too closely watched, and the ones in her own age range were too big to ever think this a viable place to sneak into. And the Templars wouldn’t look here either, which was the main reason for hiding here._

_Finding her place in the book, she began to read, absorbing the information at what seemed a natural pace to her. Later, in the Fade, she knew she would be going over every single bit of information and knowledge she had picked up for the day and practicing it. She had never mentioned that this is what happened when she went to bed at night, as she thought that that was how everyone was, until Jowan had said something one day._

_His words had only driven home the fact that there was no escape and that there was no use in ever drawing attention to herself, in any way. And revealing the fact that she was able to learn so quickly because she had tons of practice in the dream realm would set her very clearly apart. It would make the Templars watch her even more closely, which was a thought that made her skin crawl and her thighs twitch in disgust. She shoved that memory away, just like many others. Ones that held blue sky, fruit on the wind, warmth and someone who cared about her for no other reason than that she was his. Her only defense against anything was blankness. Those other things were for someone else._

_~~~~~_

_“Numb,” shuddering as he wiped his hands over his face. “Numb, so numb. No idea of what ‘normal’ is. Maker, how can anyone live that way?”_

_“What the spirit can endure sometimes is a wonder,” Crow murmured. “Just as often it’s a curse. She only survived by ensuring nothing got near her center.”_

_Hugging himself as though for warmth or comfort, Zevran was unsure and uncaring of it. “How does she even have one? Even my life...my childhood. It was...it was better than that.”_

_“She had her papa,” Crow shrugged. “He is the thing that kept her going through the night. The knowledge that one person found value in her. That one person wanted her to be safe, that one person found her precious.”_

_In agony, an agony he didn’t understand, Zevran shook. “We’re in her land, aren’t we.”_

_He already knew the answer, but he still said it anyway._

_Crow craned his head this way and that, patting the ground once, “Yes. Somewhere out here is a valley. That secret paradise is where Lahar is safe and able to be a person rather than simply a thing with power and logic.”_

_Drawing a deep breath, Zevran stood up, half ready to go and search for it, “And I’m supposed to find it, like this is some vast quest?”_

_“No,” Crow shook his head, the unnerving swirling mask flickering into something familiar before it too was gone in a blink. “But you are supposed to protect it, I suppose. It’s your choice if you do.”_

_Licking his lips, Zevran made himself ask, “Did the man who raised her ever do anything about what those...monsters did to her?”_

_Crow went still, “No. He didn’t know. And if he had, what would he have been able to do? Kill children who were taught to be monsters as soon as they could walk simply because one of their number wasn’t human?”_

_“She was the only elf?” unsurprised. Orphanages didn’t like taking in elven babies, unless it was located in a slave compound or an Alienage._

_Or near someplace with many blood mages._

_“The only one who had lasted more than a few days past her arrival into the Maker’s world,” Crow agreed readily. “Her infantile memories are buried deep, and she cannot remember the fact that even when she was carried within her mother’s body, she was well loved. Perhaps it is the fact that those memories are there anyway that has enabled her to have that valley deep somewhere out here.”_

_Asking the question unbidden, “And mine? What of my memories from before my birth?”_

_“Boy, you do not want those for the most part,” grunting. “I cannot delve into the mind of your mother, only into your memory of what was going on outside and around you. If it is any consolation, she wanted to bring you into this world, even if you came about because someone threw down a few pieces of silver.”_

_Staggering back, Zevran clutched at his chest, “Enough. Send me to the next or to dreamlessness. But do not dangle these things before me.”_

_~~~~~_

_The Templar tried to take her hand, but Lahar simply stared straight ahead, not bothering to respond. She didn’t truly see anything she looked at; she had become good at that. Everything seemed not quite real, distant. Everyone had strands that connected them to each other, paths that needed to be travelled to gain an optimum, logical outcome. Even as she looked at them, she would see these unfurling things, the way their actions were influenced and how they influenced others’ actions in turn._

_Their actions towards her were a void, though, holding no meaning or significance._

_Everyone’s actions but her papa’s._

_“This one’s a bit spooky,” one of the three, the one who had not tried to take her hand, radiated anxiety. “It’s like she’s looking right through me.”_

_The first Templar, the one who had tried to touch her, shot the second a dark look, “The child’s just fledged. Of course she looks through things. Poor child probably doesn’t even really understand what’s happened to her.”_

_It was the third one, the last one, that reminded Lahar that she needed to ignore them all. He reminded her of that fact the entire way to the Tower, across the Sea and on. She saw it in his eyes and knew that he would ensure she never forgot. So when night fell she stayed quiet when he took her out to the jakes, made not a sound or whimper, merely closed her eyes and went still._

_Neither of the other two suspected, why would they? Or maybe the older one had. He would disappear later in the night, right before they reached their boat. The chatty one could easily believe it was her fault, that some demon had stalked the night, called forth by her. The silent one would later convince him this was so._

_Lahar said nothing of any of this to the trio._

_The only thing she did change was that when it was time for the kind Templar to disappear, she threw a fit feigning a loss of control. Spontaneous healing and the small glowing balls that whipped around her made for good shows. It kept them all focused on her. As for the silent Templar, he backed off afterwards. Lahar was satisfied that the kind one and the chatty one would be left alone._

_And still she saw death coming for them._

_~~~~~_

_“Oh, little girl, have you gotten lost?” Morrigan looked up from the ball she was curled in. Nearby a large, hulking man with a soft smile on his face stood, having removed his helmet, tucked it under his arm, and then squatted far enough away to be non-threatening. “Look at you, little thing, you’re just skin and bones. It’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you.”_

_Morrigan feigned the large eyes that always made the stupid ones drop their guards even further, making her lip tremble, “Lost Mama....”_

_“Hush now. I’m Meecham, and I can help you find your mama,” he held out an arm, inviting her to come closer._

_Appearing to consider the embrace, the little girl waited a moment longer, drawing it out, before going to the big man. He was warm and solid and hoisted her up high on his shoulders, where she wound her hands over his forehead for balance. These were the ones that always chased after her first in the night when she would scamper off; they were the ones Mother always took longest to kill. These weak ones, so easily swayed by a small child in need._

_She hated this Meecham and the others just like him. They made her want to tell them to turn the other way. To change direction. To not go to their deaths screaming as they were peeled apart and devoured, bit by bit. And she would have to watch all of it. Ones like Meecham would fight long and hard, trying to get free and trying to take her with them, even after they found out she was no more than bait._

_How she hated them all for making her care._

_~~~~~_

_His head pounded with the memories, foreign bodies and shapes, the knowledge of what it was like to have magic course through veins.... Zevran was not meant to know those feelings. He was born male, not female, nor had he ever had an urge to be the other sex. And he was supposed to be numb to mana, to maybe be able to detect it if trained properly...but no. There was a moment where his fingertips felt scorched and his spine was a crackling pole of ice while his vision swam this way and that. His tongue struggled to snap out a stream of words that he locked behind his lips, blanking his thoughts to absolute vacancy._

_Zevran_ remembered _what Lahar had said about mana, spells and accidents._

 _“Relax, you don’t have any Talent to rip the Veil,” Crow said, clapping him on the back. “If you stayed out amongst the_ Ga’hals Iunimasilsh. _you would be able to throw a little weight around, even here in the Fade. But you didn’t, and so you may be more receptive than others, but you’ll never be a threat without large amounts of blood and someone else’s Power behind you.”_

_“What are you?” turning to face Crow full on, catching the Spirit’s arms above the elbows. “What are you really?”_

_“I am what I am. I am a fragment of existence, a piece of will,” Crow did not fight his hold, standing there easily and comfortably. “A thought on the wind that made it through the Veil. Or maybe I was something in the Fade that heard that thought and became it. Does it really matter? To you, I am Crow. There need be nothing more to it than that.” A hand with too many joints passed over Zevran’s face, “Go to your rest, boy. You have earned some.”_


	16. Chapter 16

XXX  
Murder 15  
XXX

 

“Is something amiss?” Lahar had been easily convinced that she shouldn’t leave him behind again, and she slowed her steps to speak with him more privately.

“No, _preciosa_ , why do you ask?” giving her an easy smile, and laying his hand at the small of her back for a brief second.

Her brows furrowed, and her lips pursed as she searched his face, but he kept his expression mild, “You seem...off. You’re acting different.” Soft as a butterfly’s wings, fingers wrapped around his fingertips where he had cut away the leather of his gauntlet fingers so he didn’t lose the sense of touch that was so necessary to his style of fighting. It was all he could do not to flinch. “Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”

Widening his smile, Zevran turned every ounce of his attention on putting forth his usual amount of warmth, “ _Mi nina,_ there is...”

“Stop that,” and she stepped closer, her head tipping back all the way reminding him of just _how_ tiny she was, even as an adult. “You’ve been off for days.” Her hand wrapped itself tighter about his fingers, and he had a flash of remembering just how small her fingers had once been. “You’re always staring at me now. Do you stare like that at everyone? I don’t understand.”

The Crow hadn’t particularly noticed that he had been staring at her of late. He had only taken to watching over her more carefully. He brought their meals to their tent and waited for her to make her rounds with the others. He watched her move and speak, searching for any little sign that there was something he could do. _Straws, I am clutching at straws._

“Not everyone, no, _mi vida preciosa_ ,” pulling her even closer, wrapping an arm around her slender shoulders, and tucking his chin against her forehead. “Only at that which I find intriguing.”

Releasing her, Zevran stepped back, putting some small space between them. _Do you still look right through people? Are we all connected by the bindings of Fate and Fortune that you can choose and pick as our fair bard does the strings of a lute?_

“Hey, you two, do you think, _maybe_ you could wait until _after_ we get to the town up ahead to start being...all...” Alistair interrupted, making little waving gestures and clasping his hands tightly together whilst wiggling side to side. “You know? There could be, oh, I dunno, some _darkspawn_ or other suitably nasty things around here that we might want to keep a lookout for?”

Lahar only had a faint blush over her cheeks, but it was there, giving her a diffuse glow, “There shouldn’t be any darkspawn around here yet.”

Zevran gave the mage a gentle nudge, “And that means we do not have a Wardens’ senses to alert us, only those that we were born with, _mi cielo_ , so we must be vigilant.”

“We’ll talk later then,” and he knew she wouldn’t let his behaviour go. 

Levi Dryden had told them of this small blot of a town that boasted as its main attraction an inn and a lot of woodworking as well as a nominally talented leatherworker. Picking up his feet, Zevran hitched his pack a little higher and knocked his heel on the ground once to shift a fold in his sock, _Pfah, I need these things resoled. I did not think there would be so much_ walking _in this blasted country. And I need more socks._ Of course, he hadn’t counted on living long enough so that ten pairs of socks would be insufficient or on the fact that a certain woman had a fondness for borrowing his clothes.

Including his socks and not just his shirts.

Not too far behind them on the small deer track that might aspire to become a footpath when it grew up, was Levi, the Feddics and the others. But ahead was the tiny lumber town that may or may not have a name. Zevran didn’t particularly care. What he wanted was a bath, some socks, new soles for his boots, and a place to hole up, bar the doors and bundle Lahar up safe and sound. In fact he had half a mind to see what could be done about finding more clothes for Lahar, and some heavier ones for himself. He had arrived in early spring, and now it was early summer. But there was still going to be winter and rain. Lanaya had seen fit to ensure they were all well outfitted, plus there was the added supplementing that the Feddics did, yet that still wasn’t enough. 

Zevran began making a list inside a corner of his mind while keeping his eyes on Lahar and focusing his other senses on their surroundings, _Flour, salt, honey or sugar if they have it. Tea or coffee would be too much to hope for. Wine, brandy, some strong spirits for wounds and poisons. Spices would be a dream come true, and far too precious a commodity for a place like this..._ He was brought up short by Lahar’s stopping to poke at something on the ground with the tip of her staff.

“What’s this?” with an inquisitive little frown on her face. 

Directing his gaze downwards, “A toy.”

“A...toy?” the expression she shot him was utterly bemused. 

Nudging the wooden disc, the mage dug it up from the mud. Glancing up ahead, Zevran spied Morrigan and Alistair looking around some of the houses. No one seemed to be in town, or if they were, they had all run away, probably fearing bandits, and with good reason. Desperate times made for insanities in a country as sprawling and disconnected as Ferelden. Things seemed safe enough, so he swung his eyes back to his mage, realizing that the toy she had found was a yo-yo. It was one of those odd things that had become a children’s toy but had never been meant as such. 

“ _Si, pequeña,_ a toy. You play with it,” watching her reaction carefully.

She hefted it in her hand, brushing some of the dirt away and plucking at the string on it. “I don’t understand. How do you play with it? I...I don’t know how.”

“You have never played with a yo-yo before?” probing cautiously. 

The Warden bit her lip, uncertainty coming off of her in waves as she held it out to him. “I’ve never had a toy before. I’ve...never been allowed to play either. I...I know what toys are and what play is. I just....”

Taking the yo-yo from her outstretched palm, the Crow rewound the string and showed her. “You play with it like so.” Gravity, force and spin made the circle wind down quickly and bounce back up when he changed the angle of his wrist, and with another flick, he let it drop back down, “See?”

Her eyes had gone huge, hands tucked up under her chin and mouth open in amazement at such a small little thing. Right then, the Antivan thought his heart would break. If he had one. He swallowed back the bile that came with the knowledge of just how deprived this girl-woman-child of his had been. And if Crow kept messing with his head, such knowledge as he had now would have destroyed him if he had been fully connected. He only hoped that once Crow was finished, the things he knew would not break him. 

“Can...can I try?” The look in her eyes was like a strike to the kidneys, it was so debilitatingly hopeful. 

Biting his tongue, Zevran nodded and put the little ring-loop around her finger after taking her small pack from her shoulders. Stepping away to set aside their gear, he used the few moments to school his expression. He needed to keep his fractured thoughts from his face. Taking a deep breath, the Crow pressed the heels of his palms to his aching eyes, seeking to alleviate the burning discomfort. 

Later he could blame it on inattention or the confusion stirred up by Crow or on stupidity. But right then, he couldn’t do anything other than hear the pebbles shift overhead and glance up in time to see a human shape on the roof of a nearby house. There was no time to shout, or if there was, Zevran wasn’t sure he had done so. What there was time for was lunging forward and the sensation of impact. 

XXX

_“So we meet again, Ser Crow,” Zevran snorted at the Spirit. “Fancy seeing you here.”_

_“Do you realize you have a most distressing habit of getting yourself knocked unconscious?” Exasperated, Crow threw his hands in the air._

_Chuckling in odd good nature, Zevran replied, “It is a talent, I must say. One I had thought well hidden.” Turning serious. “I know what you are doing. I just do not know why.”_

_Crow cocked his head, “Oh? And what is it I am doing?”_

_“Molding me.” Picking a direction in the tundra and beginning to walk, Zevran forced the Spirit to follow him or be left behind. “Creating a tool for the reason of guarding Lahar. Why? Why her in particular?”_

_“Yours is a singularly interesting mind,” Crow hooked his thumbs into his belt as they trudged. “As a Crow, as one who has gone through his_ Culminacíon _you have been broken down and scoured so that you could be shaped like clay and then hardened into that shape. It is a process can be changed by someone who understands it. There are some clays that, even after shaping and firing, are still able to be morphed into something else if you know how. You are like this.”_

_Zevran nodded his understanding. “I am familiar with pottery at a basic level, yes. But why?”_

_“Why you? You are here, and you are someone I can shape. Someone who is ideally suited, or can be made to be suited, to the task,” shrugging. “I could bash Alistair into the mold, but he would be an inappropriate pick for many reasons, not the least of which is that he would crack under the pressure eventually.”_

_“No, I mean why Lahar. That is what I have asked, and that is not what you have answered. Stop side-stepping,” grunting._

_Crow only laughed, “You seek some simple answer, when you do not understand the nature of Fade Spirits. There are as many Spirits as there are types of demons. There is Justice and there is Vengeance. Faith and Doubt. Love and Hate. I am a Spirit of the Fade. My goal is as Crow. I am a tool that is used, a Spirit of a sort of...contract. Need called me here to this band, to Lahar, to Alistair, to this Blight. So, I shape the tools that are needed from the ones available, even as I am a tool myself.”_

_Zevran had come to that conclusion already. Perhaps Lahar’s willpower had called to the Fade, bonding with memories of some dead Crow to make the entity that walked beside him as though it were a man of flesh and blood, and not a construct of thought, will and Power with a truly unfathomable mind._

_“We are all tools in the hands of those who use us,” Zevran added. “And you have already reshaped me enough, Crow, that for some reason I no longer care that you are doing what you are. We both know my own personal will was overwritten long ago.”_

_Crow reached out, grabbing him and yanking him to a sudden stop. “By the time I am through with you, Zevran Arainai, you will have your own personal will. It is neither my wish nor my drive to steal it from you, but to reawaken it.”_

_Tugging on his arm as he pursed his lips at the other ‘man’, “And what if my personal will, my personal choice and identity had no interest in guarding what you push me at?”_

_“You will serve well enough, long enough, that you can take having your own sense of self returned to you as your payment for undertaking the task,” Crow let him go. “I shall make a contract with you. Your freedom of mind, sense of self, willpower -- all of it, returned and reawakened in full – in exchange for seeing this task completed, being the guardian and guide that sees them through the Blight.”_

_Zevran stared for a long moment, then closed his eyes willing blackness to pull him from this part of the Fade. He would need time to consider that contract and its worth. Payment for a thing he was already bound to do made little sense. There would be some catch. Somehow, the Fade did listen to him, and he was allowed to leave._

XXX

He wasn’t alone. _Of course I’m not, tchk, Lahar is always..._ the smell was wrong. The air felt wrong. Lahar wasn’t the one beside him.

“Relax, elf, no need to fall into a crazed state with me,” Morrigan’s voice dripped scorn.

Sucking in a deep breath that sent stabbing pains into his chest, he sat up, “Where is she? Is she alright?”

“Ugh, ‘tis a wonder I even bother!” rolling her eyes, the Chasind crossed her arms, the damp cloth clutched in one hand showing traces of his blood. “You are one of the dimmest buffoons I have ever come across. If you have torn out those stitches, I shan’t be putting new ones in.”

The urge to smack Morrigan was countered by the fact that he saw how hard her fingers clenched at the rag and the sensation of moisture all over his upper torso. _She had been washing me?_ A strange notion to say the least. One that showed a care, even if only a little one. It was out of character, and still it was a kindness, and Zevran wouldn’t repay such with vitriol. Most likely it was done not for his benefit, but for Lahar’s, so that she would not be forced to see the gore and grime. 

Stilling his temper, he asked once more, “Well, is she alright or not?”

The expression on the witch’s face was baffled, “Yes, of course she is alright.”

Relief poured through the assassin, and he sagged back on the bed, “Mph, good then.”

The Antivan closed his eyes and waited for a moment, while Morrigan shifted. He heard the cloth being dropped into the water and then a curse before it was wrung out. _Eh? Strange creature._ Thinking that she would get the hint, Zevran waited a breath longer.

Warm droplets landed on his abdomen right before cloth touched him, and his eyes popped open, startled, “What are you doing? Why are you still here?” Catching the woman’s wrist, halting the next swipe of the wash rag, “Go get Lahar already.”

“You are an idiot. Vile, detestable, boorish, inattentive, and all around incompetent,” her voice was soft, the faded sulfur eyes boring holes into him as she shook off his grip, so she could return to cleaning him. 

Making a face, “I am? Really now, you say such wonderful things to me, Morrigan, it makes it nearly impossible for me to keep my desires in check. Truly, you drive a man simply _wild_ with them.”

Morrigan ignored what he said and only asked, “Have you ever known her to lose her temper?”

That gave him a moment of pause. “Who? Lahar?”

“No, Andraste, the Maker’s Bride! Of _course_ Lahar, you moron!” growling. Zevran had to wince when the mage rubbed over a tender spot a little too hard.

Grunting instead, “My Warden does not have a temper to lose.”

The apostate’s answer came as he was inspecting his surroundings. A small room, wood, bed made from wool and rope on a frame, and a pervasive stink of fire. It was an altogether unremarkable little room in someone’s home. “If you continue to think like that, Zevran, people will get hurt. Many people.”

Given pause by the fact that Morrigan had used his name, he conceded, “Alright, I suppose she does get irritated sometimes.” _Usually with me, and then she always looks like she wants to stomp her foot and wave a fist around and call me something silly,_ He had to repress a smirk, because it was endearing in its own way.

“Oh yes, yes I saw her irritated today. She was not angry at all, merely miffed,” her voice lilted in a merrily mocking way on the words.

Unfamiliar with the word, Zevran queried “Miffed?”.

“Oh yes, miffed,” she nodded agreeably. “I know anger when I see it, elf, and Lahar was barely past irritated into ‘miffed’. Not aggravated, but annoyed of a certainty.”

This conversation was confusing him now, and the Antivan didn’t particularly like it. What he wanted was Lahar, not Morrigan, tending to him. He needed to ensure that his Bonded was whole and unharmed for himself, not be berated and told that his Warden was ‘miffed’.

Giving the Chasind’s hand a push so he could sit up, he found himself forced back down by a branding iron-hot hand on his shoulder, “Alright, fine. She is miffed. And this is a problem?”

Morrigan’s lips pursed into a narrow line, “You need new weapons now.”

Blinking rapidly, Zevran had to think about that for a moment before he could choke out, “What?”

“She immolated everything,” arching her brows. “Your armour barely protected you with the help of that ring you wear. And you were not even in the path of the blast.”

Grimacing, “But she is not any good with fire. She can barely manage to heat up a tub of water let alone....”

“Tis certainly a fact that I am aware of, elf,” interrupting him. All the air in his lungs came out in a whoosh of surprise. “Also, if you were to step outside this hovel, you would see a large, smoking hole in place of half of this grungy collection of similar hovels that the imbecilic Dryden calls ‘a village.’” 

He felt his eyes begin to bug in shock, “She _what_? No, she could not! She did, didn’t she? _Braska!_ ”

“Yes, she did. Because she was miffed,” a vaguely smug smile tightened the corners of her mouth.

Zevran pressed his face into his hands. “And...what has this to do with me?”

“It is because of you that it happened. Thus, it is your fault she lost her temper,” came the acerbic statement, accompanied by more washing of his battered torso.

“My fault? My fair witch, I did nothing,” protesting readily.

The noise of disgust was worthy of an actress, “‘T’was it not you that fell in a fight, or was it some other elven male that has joined our party without my knowledge? Must I explain everything in small words for you?”

Gritting his teeth, “I suppose you must.”

“Fine, then I shall be very, very clear, elf, and you had best use those pointed ears to listen, for I will explain this once and only once.” The mage cleared her throat daintily. “People like Lahar do not lose their tempers because it seems to be a wiser course for them to suppress their tempers, to their way of thinking. ‘Tis a foolish belief, for they will lose their tempers eventually. And when they do, it will be no small thing as these feelings build when they are bottled up. Lahar is unused to dealing with anger and will unleash every force she can summon. ‘Twill be a glorious thing. Just think on it. A mage with her brute mental power and that fine tuned logical mind of hers, combined so freely with anger.” 

Dawning understanding sent a tremor through him, “That would be a very unfortunate thing. Ah, rather bad.”

“Bad? Unfortunate? Those aren’t the sorts of words that could describe it at all!” Morrigan’s eyes flashed dangerously. “She ripped half the town from the ground, incinerated it in a conflagration that was then frozen into _ash_ before being sucked into a hailstorm to be flung far and wide! And ‘twas when she was no more than _mildly irritated_! Anger on the magnitude that would slip the leash she uses on herself would be... _catastrophic_ on a scale even I cannot dwell on without some fear, Zevran.”

Zevran’s mind swam with the implications, “My dear witch, are you saying that you...”

“I am saying, elf, that as a mage, Lahar is the most powerful person I have ever met who was unaided by demons,” jutting her chin out stubbornly. “T’would seem that it should have been obvious before now. In that Chantry-run kennel, we came across a demon of Sloth who locked us all in the Fade. I was unable to break free. Alistair was unable to break free. Wynne was unable to break free. Lahar did and freed us all to fight the demon,” she huffed. “‘Tis most likely that she would not have needed us at all. I knew I was in the Fade. I knew I was in a trap and that the thing sent to keep me there was a demon and not Mother at all. Even so, my own skills and knowledge have limits.”

Taking a deep breath, Zevran scooted to sit up slowly. “And your mother? This Flemeth? Is she not more powerful?”

“Mother is an abomination, elf, more demon than simple mage.” The news rocked him. “Mother is one of the few I would say could frighten me, if I were ever to admit to such a weakness. And Lahar has no demon or spirit to back her. Think on that very carefully, Zevran. Very carefully indeed.”

Zevran raked a hand through his hair, _My Warden is very much sweetness and light on the inside. And on the outside a cold wasteland of logic. But inside, there is also the rage and the pain of what has been done to her. It has to be there, somewhere, hidden so deeply that she is not even aware of it. What would happen if it were ever unleashed....?_ He shuddered suddenly. _Maker help us all._

Taking the washcloth from Morrigan, he made a few quick swipes over himself, putting on an air of cheeriness that he didn’t quite feel. “Alright then, it seems I must go placate our tiny, dangerous, fluffy ice princess of a monster before she burns the house down around my very ears.”

XXX

It was mainly because Morrigan had warned him that he didn’t just sit down on the ground in amazement at the destruction that half the small village had gone through. When he stepped outside of the hut, he could clearly see what appeared to be a crater blasted out with lyrium sand infused grenades. A whole cart full of boxes filled with such grenades would leave the ground torn that way. It was as if some massive creature had taken a shovel and merely scooped out a bowl shaped dent from the ground for fun and no effort at all. 

But he had been warned, so all he did was blink once and turn his feet to stagger to his mage.

 _“Bonita,”_ unsteady on his feet, the Crow pressed towards the edge of the crater, where Lahar was squatting on her heels, chin on a fist. “Please, come away from the edge. It looks unstable.”

“Oh!” Lahar shot upwards and was in his arms as if she were trying to steady him. “No, no. It’s fine. It’s pretty sturdy right there. You’re supposed to be in bed, and Wynne is on her way, and so are the others, and are you okay?”

Zevran’s jaw dropped at the flood of words. “Ah, yes, I am quite fine, only a little winded.”

“Good, good, um....” Her face was tucked into his chest, but he could feel how careful she was to not put pressure on him. “I think I may have done something wrong.”

He found that an interesting choice of words. “Wrong?” the Crow prompted, allowing the mage to support some of his weight.

It felt as if someone had taken a sledgehammer to him and then let a bear sit on him afterward, so he supposed he could be forgiven for letting Lahar take some of his weight. Besides, she was being rather insistent what with almost standing on his feet, her arms around his waist and such. 

“I was playing,” her voice sank to nothing but a shame filled whisper. “And I wasn’t paying attention. You...you got hurt. Because of me.”

Really, whatever cruel jokes the Maker wanted to keep playing, He had best quit using him as the butt of them. The horror was what had crushed him, not whatever large item that had been thrown at him. _Oh,_ amante, _you pitiful thing. Why must you always judge yourself so harshly?_

Taking shallow breaths, Zevran wrapped his arms around Lahar cupping her head gently as he felt his expression range from anger to pain to horror. “I was not paying attention either, _mi nina_. To say that it was your fault because you were doing something natural is...unjust, inaccurate and unfair.”

“But you got _hurt_ , because of _me_!” She darted a look up at him, and Zevran had to fight to stay on his feet, as it hit him like a load of bricks. 

It reminded him of the way she had looked up at her “papa” in the memory he had been subjected to. Everything hurt -- his chest, his ribs, spine, stomach, head, _eyes_ , his mouth. His throat hurt like it was being starved for air. And his skin felt as if it were being slowly peeled away and rubbed with salt. _Do not look at me like that, please,_ preciosa _, like you are ashamed for something you could not help. Like you are afraid I will abandon you._

Sighing, he grabbed her chin tilting her face back to look him in the eye. “You did nothing wrong, Lahar. You cannot stand here and beat yourself over something that could have happened even if we were paying full attention.” Zevran jerked his head to the side indicating the crater that had once been half a village. “And to say you did not solve the problem before it became greater, is not something that is possible at all.” 

Lahar’s eyes rolled to the side, glancing at the destruction. “I was annoyed that they caught me unawares and hurt you.”

“And so you took care of the problem. Simple, yes?” giving her head a little shake via her chin. “It is done and do not think on it further. Now, if only there were a way to fill that all with water. I could go for a swim about now.” Seeking to get a laugh out of her, “You know, in Antiva you would be hailed as a visionary – a new, labour saving method for building public baths. They would love you for it.”

Her expression was perfectly serious as she said, “I could put a few blizzards out there, and then Morrigan could melt the snow.”

His ribs protested his laughter, but he couldn’t help it as he threw his head back. Squeezing her tightly, Zevran ignored the way his chest creaked, “Ah, _mi vida,_ you are such a joy!”

Lahar submitted to the hug, returning it, but she sounded utterly confused, “I don’t understand.”

“Do not worry over it, _pequeña mia_ ,” chuckling as he turned to look out over the hole in the ground. “It is most impressive you know, but I do hope that our packs were not ruined in the blast.”

“No, but your dagger and sword got melted because they were half out.” The Warden sounded very upset by this.

Waving his hand dismissively, “I have more in my gear. It was time to trade for upgrades anyway.”

Smoke was still rising from the ground, and Zevran could see dirt and rock that had been melted into a layer of glass. _Hmm, Lahar indeed. She truly was aptly named,_ raising an eyebrow at the concave blast site. He could tell where she had been standing, for it was shallower there while the force seemed to have spread and deepened as it traveled away from her. The Guild would love to harness someone so powerful, but at the same time would probably deem her _too_ powerful to control – worse even than the spitting cobra Rinna had kept as a pet, for that was merely a dumb animal and incapable of willful action or outsmarting its keeper. Rubbing his palm up and down his Bonded’s arm soothingly, the Crow wondered for a brief instant what he would do when he took her to Antiva. That gave him pause, because he knew it would be unlikely he could ever return, and most certainly not with a prize like the Warden in tow. The Guildmaster would be unable to resist the chance to add a mage of this much raw power to his hat as a pretty new feather.

Then again, all they would have to do is aggravate her, and it would be unlikely that Antiva City itself would exist afterwards.

 _Qunari invasions, Blights, the Imperium, and Guild wars have never destroyed my beloved and fair Antiva City,_ casting a glance down at the Warden who was merely looking at her handiwork with a very clinical eye. _If one mage lost her temper fully, it would be gone. Perhaps if we survive this Blight, I shall send a letter to the Guildmaster, tell him of my intention to return and give him reports on what Lahar is capable of. And make very sure that he understands precisely how much he does not wish to get in her way, let alone on her bad side. In that case, perhaps she and I shall be left alone to vacation there or to start a cell of my own._ It was an interesting thought. 

Lahar would adore Antiva and the City itself. Gardens and museums, libraries for her to bury herself in – it would be a veritable Golden City. And there would be glorious, delicious food that did not make his stomach ache or his jaw hurt from too much chewing. And he would be able to drape Lahar in silks and linens fit for her delicate skin in a climate where maybe she could be warm for once. He could hang jewels from her beautiful little ears so that they would sparkle and shine under piles of artful curls such as only a few women could truly wear. And there, too, Lahar would be as the event that was her namesake – rolling over and destroying or subverting all in her path, leaving a swath of destruction behind her as everyone fell at her tiny little feet, gasping at her beauty. 

Unable to stop the laughter at the image, the Antivan shook his head, waving a hand at Lahar who looked as though she were about to question him.

_Mierda, I am besotted. Oh, how the others would laugh if they could see me. How far the mighty have fallen, yes?_

XXX

His chest was still sore, particularly around the breastbone and the connections between his collarbones. And he was also still mightily disturbed by the memories of what had been done to Lahar. Because of those memories alone, he had held off seeking sex from his mage since a return to their usual sleeping arrangements. But it had been long enough, and sore chest or no, he wanted to resume their normal activities.

Locking his hands about her waist, he tugged her to press her back to him where they stood in the small hut. “Mmm, do you have any idea how lovely you look when playing?”

Lahar tipped her head back, resting her cheek on his chest, looking up at him, sweetly baffled. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Oh?” leaning down enough to kiss her temple. “Then perhaps I was imagining you toying with a string moments ago, probably thinking of attempting to spin the yo-yo.”

Shame washed over her face, and he felt her trying to pull away, “I’m sorry.”

Turning her in his arms, he dipped down so that he could catch her eye, “Lahar, _amante_ , cease. Desist. There is nothing wrong with it. Did I not say that I thought you lovely this morning? I would be happy to see you play with the yo-yo. You still have yet to get the hang of its use.”

She couldn’t look him in the eye, but rummaged in the folds of her robe for a moment before presenting the yo-yo, “Take it please. I shouldn’t have this.”

“Tchk, Lahar, do not be so difficult,” folding her slim fingers over the simple toy. “Even I had toys as a child, if you must know. A horse on wheels with a string to drag it behind me was my favorite.” He dredged the memory up with a little prodding. “I used to pretend I was _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ as I trotted around the rooms and back alley behind the whorehouse, dragging it by its string and letting out all sorts of mad cries. Or I would pretend I was a wild Dalish, stealing horses from the _Ga’hals_ in retaliation for some transgression or another.” His mage’s eyes were large, as if she were trying to imagine him as a child, playing wildly. “I also had a yo-yo, a gift from one of the patrons who said every child should have one. He was a woodworker and brought a large box of them for the children. Zamitie, the whore who paid the most attention to me, painted a horse on one side and a halla on the other.”

Lahar’s fingers flexed around the wooden toy, looking down at it and then up at him again. “I used to hide in the bushes pretending no one could see me. I would curl into a small ball and wedge myself between the base of the wall and the roots.” White teeth dragged over her bottom lip, making it blanch. “Or I would hide behind a bookcase or in a closet. Or under the bed in one of the cells.”

Zevran knew some of this, but asked anyway, “And what did you pretend?”.

“That no one would find me. That if I closed my eyes, I wouldn’t exist.” Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I never thought to pretend anything else. They didn’t give us any toys. We were taught that we were abominations and that our existence was to be punished. The human children would run and play tag or other games. I just...hid. Always. When I learned to read, I would take books or hide in the school rooms and read.”

Stroking her cheeks as he tilted her face back so he could kiss the corner of her mouth, Zevran assured her “You need not hide any longer. I shall stand between you and whatever may come.”

“That’s...my job,” it was a sigh against his jaw. “I need to keep the Crows from you.”

“Only the Crows, _amante_ , all else I shall keep from you,” reassuring her in the hopes of helping her relax.

Lahar stepped up closer, tucking her chin into his chest, “So you’ll just simply carry me through the Blight, and then tell the Guild when they come that I am a very formidable and scary person, and you are under my protection rather than vice versa?” She snorted softly when she rubbed her cheek over his chest. “And never mind that you, yourself, are formidable. Do you _really_ think they will buy into this?”

 _Auck, woman, can you not simply accept things? And must you be so perceptive?_ Holding a groan of frustration back, “ _Princessa_ , they will err on the side of caution. And while they may think there is a possibility that you are no more than a figurehead, they will not dare to test it. You are a mage of...vast means. By simply surviving a Crow attack you have proved this. And to make it through the Blight, even with help, will say to them that you are not to be trifled with and any that you grant protection are to be left in peace.”

“It means you would have to stay with me, doesn’t it?” whispering. The expression on her face was heartbreaking. “Won’t you ever be free? Even of me?”

For a second he was completely incredulous, the thought at the forefront of his mind, _Why would I ever want that?_ but what came from his mouth, thankfully, was “Freedom is in the mind, _mi cielo_. It can never be taken from me.” 

Before he could say anything else, something too revealing or at the least something that sounded not particularly intelligent, Zevran leaned down to cover Lahar’s mouth with his. He sucked the silken smoothness of her tongue between his lips, silencing any further commentary from his mage, which was a bonus. She made him think too much. His Warden swayed in his arms under the onslaught, and he felt his ribs creak. Wynne’s healing did work wonders, but the connections between ribs and breastbone were still tenuous. Masking the wince, he held Lahar tighter, ignoring the way his chest strained as he squeezed her to him. 

He had her half undressed and was pushing her onto the bed, when she regathered her wits, “Wait...”

Moaning into her chest, Zevran knelt on the edge of the bed, pushing her knees apart, “Please, _preciosa_ , I need you.”

Fingers were in his hair, tugging firmly, “Your chest, you...you’re hurt still.”

“I am fine,” straightening up and shoving his leggings down, he leaned back on his heels and stroked his length so that she could see him becoming fully aroused. 

Large eyes followed the motion, and the blush on her face went down her neck to her chest as she sucked her bottom lip. “They threw a cauldron on you, and Wynne only gave you a partial healing....”

“Mmm, Lahar,” tightening his grip on the thickest part of his shaft, Zevran used his other hand to work his sheath along the sensitive head of his cock, letting out a soft groan at how good it felt. “I do not wish to talk about other people while we are in bed together.”

His mage scooted around on the bed, tucking her legs under her, and he could see how she wanted to watch him. And if the way her hands clenched her knees were an indicator, touch him. Thrusting against his hands, the edges of the bedframe digging into the shins of his folded legs, Zevran carefully caught her eye, raised his hand to his mouth and licked his palm before returning to use the now slicked callus on his member.

“I just, we need...” It was actually kind of endearing to see her struggle. Her body was telling her one thing, her head another. Lahar’s obvious desire for him, as well as her desire not to risk hurting him touched that strange little spark that had almost made him blurt out that he didn’t have any reason to be ‘free’ of her and fanned it. “I could touch you...”

Slipping from the bed long enough to shuck his leggings, Zevran sucked in a sharp breath as Lahar met him at the end of the bed. Her hands were reaching for his hips, and she was looking up at him, and all the Antivan could think of was how good her mouth would look on the end of his cock. Stroking her hair and tangling his hands in the locks, it took inordinate effort to not simply pull her to his aching erection. Instead, he leaned down to feather kisses over her upturned face.

It was the touch of her fingers combing through the dense curls around the base of his prick that elicited a low hum and caused him to aim for a delicate ear so he could make his request. “ _Mi tierra_ , I would like to suggest something, if you are amenable.”

Hunched awkwardly as he was over her, it gave the Warden free rein to press her mouth to his chest and mumble, “What do you need me to do?”

Flexing strongly in her grip, “Please, _mi diosa tierra y cielo,_ your mouth.”

For a brief time he thought he would need to give her more direction than that, but he hadn’t wished to push. Lahar was completely comfortable touching him with her hands and rubbing her face into his stomach and chest, but had never ventured below his navel before, so he had wished to be cautious, all things considered. However, his damaged little mage blinked a few times, pulling away to look at his manhood for a moment as though seeing it for the first time, cheeks turning even rosier than they had been, before flicking a glance up at him.

“Like how you do to me?” The crystal white of her eyes almost glimmered in the dim light thrown by the tallow candle. 

Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. “ _Si, hermosa diosa, por favor_ , just so.”

The flash of her tongue over her bottom lip drew his eye as she set out slowly, shy and unsure. Tentative kisses to his hips and stomach as she gradually worked her way to the throbbing heat of his prick left shivering moist trails. Zevran stayed still, watching Lahar while he brushed his fingers with exceeding gentleness over her hair, encouraging his Bonded without words. When he finally felt the still very tiny kisses along his shaft, he let out a sigh of relief. Her lips, just like her hands and feet, were always cool, and against the heat of his length, it was half relief, half torture. An experimental pass of her tongue left a long line of rapidly cooling wetness down the underside, making him shudder.

Like butterfly wings, the press of her lips was a barely there thing that was joined by brief exploratory swipes of tongue. When she finally reached his tip, she pulled back a moment, tilting her head to the side and blinking rapidly before taking a deep breath and parting her lips. Zevran moaned as chilly lips and warm tongue slipped along his sheath, moving the skin back. Lahar flinched away in surprise, eyes darting up to look at him and then back down. 

Stroking her jaw, Zevran encouraged her. “Shh, it is alright, _mi cielo_. You do not have to...”

“I didn’t think about that,” nose scrunching, and her upper lip folding over her bottom one in a peculiar expression of curiosity. “Um...do I just...push it back?” 

“If you like,” shrugging as he ran a thumb over her bottom lip. “To me the only important thing is that you like doing this well enough that you would be willing to do it again.”

The mage’s eyebrows drew down tightly over her nose. “But this is supposed to please you.”

Stretching his shoulders until they popped, the Crow slid his hands over Lahar’s cheeks until his fingers were buried in her thick wavy hair. “ _Amante_ , anything we do is not solely for one of us or the other. If you are uncomfortable or your experiences with me are not pleasing to you as well, why would we repeat such an act? No, this has to be pleasant for you.” 

Lahar barely took a moment to think about that, before she was easing his foreskin back. “Is this what you meant by exploring you the other night?”

His answer was a cut off hiss, because she squeezed behind the head of his cock. _“Yess.”_

A bead of pre-cum welled from the slit which his Bonded examined for a moment before her tongue came out and she licked it away. “Oh! _That’s_ what you taste like...”

Zevran was about to speak, but wound up only grunting for his Warden’s mouth wrapped around him once more and she began swirling her tongue over him inside her mouth. Head lolling back, his grip tightened in her hair, and he had to resist the urge to thrust against the sensation rolling over him. _Sweet Fortuna!_ was all that came clearly into his mind. With Lahar, Zevran had not felt much need to hold himself back in his pleasure, only in his demands, so he did not struggle against the building tightness in his groin. _Besides, it is not as though I am not going to reciprocate._ He was unable to fully stop himself from slowly rocking against Lahar’s ministrations. She let out a tiny little hum of surprise the second time he did so, which in turn sent vibrations all the way up his length, and the Antivan groaned his encouragement. 

His orgasm was fast approaching. His breathing picked up speed, and as if Lahar sensed his need, she too picked up speed. Her entire focus had been on his tip, while one hand held him at the base, as her other arm was wrapped around his hips. Growling, Zevran disentangled a hand from her hair and began jerkily rubbing his shaft while her mouth suckled at him, her bright eyes staring up at him watchfully. There was nothing purposefully artful in that look; it was almost entirely comprised of innocent curiosity. In some ways that expression itself was enough to send him over. No one other than her had ever watched him with such patent questions on their faces, as if he were the most fascinating thing in existence. And since it was combined with the feeling of her tongue repeatedly running over and around and up and down the crown of his prick, well, that was quite a bit to resist. Which he hadn’t planned on doing anyway.

Attempting to pull his hips away from Lahar resulted in her issuing a tiny growl of her own, and the mage’s hold on him increased. So it was with a laughing moan that Zevran attained his bliss, because the way her eyes had narrowed up at him and the fact that even with his cock in her mouth she had almost pouted up at him was far too priceless and comical at once. There was a surprised little mewl as he felt himself pulsing between her lips, but then the suction increased, and he could no longer help himself from clutching her head closer to him as he pushed deeper into her mouth. Even so, the Crow kept from being forceful or pushing in too far. _Oh yes, I want this again. I want you pulling the seed from me and that strange expression in your eyes._

Spent the Antivan let Lahar go, gently pulling away and watching as she blinked slowly, licking her lips after she swallowed. “You taste interesting. Sometimes I can taste myself on you, but then other times, it’s different.” She ran a finger along the length of the tendon on the inside of his now highly sensitive thigh. “Now, I know why.”

Sinking down on the bed, Zevran grabbed her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. “I had not intended to release myself in your mouth. At least, not the first few times, as it is considered...ah...” he took a moment to find the right word, “Impolite. Some find it unpleasant.”

“It’s...different,” the Warden gave a tiny shrug, before tugging her hand from his and beginning to wriggle out of the last vestiges of her clothes. “It’s really salty and thick. A little bitter, too.” 

Reaching out, he pulled her close to him and partially covered her body with his own. “There is a creature, a...ah...shellfish? Oyster, it makes pearls. It is also considered a delicacy. I myself have always found them quite tasty.” Nuzzling at the corner of Lahar’s jaw while one hand snaked a meandering path over her side and hip, “It has always reminded me of how a man should taste, although, that very much depends on what he has eaten of late.” 

A smooth leg wound around his thigh, Lahar’s arms wrapping around him and stroking his shoulders. “I’ve never had an oyster. If they taste like you, then that’s not bad.”

Arching over the other elf, Zevran’s lips sought out that spot behind her ear, his still busy hand continuing to run over her soft skin, working his way slowly to her flower. “Mm well, then we shall have to see about finding some. Rivers have their own brand of shellfish, and they all have certain qualities that a body needs. This Ferelden habit of consuming only meats from four legged creatures, grains that grow in dry fields or tubers is rather tiresome. No wonder everyone is so pasty. They are unhealthy.”

“I don’t think it has to do with...” her thought was cut off with a soft gasp, and he smiled as he massaged her nether lips open with his fingers. “Zev....”

Tracing over her entrance with his middle finger, the Crow used his thumb to skip over the peak of her clit, ‘writing’ the letters of his name around and on the ridge, as he worked his finger slowly into her channel. Kissing the corner of her lips as they pursed in a tiny moue of broken concentration, Zevran felt how her muscles clenched around the shallow intrusion of his fingers, seeking to pull them in deeper. Rotating his wrist as he withdrew and thrust back into her channel, Lahar whimpered, her face turning to his in restless desire. Meeting her questing mouth, he gradually sped up the strokes until Lahar arched, letting out a soft cry against his lips. 

While she was still floating in the aftershocks, he withdrew his fingers to replace them with his manhood in a deep thrust. A strangled keen and his Warden’s limbs clamped about him, her hips bucking upwards, drawing him in all the way. Wetness and tight flutters around his length clasped him, and Zevran growled, burying himself entirely in Lahar’s embrace. Her gasps and moans were right beside his ear, spurring him to ride her mercilessly, sucking on a patch of flesh at her shoulder as his hips rose and fell. Nails scrabbled over his back, and his Bonded’s back bowed, her breasts pressed to his chest, her mouth open in a soundless cry. Forgetting everything other than her, Zevran let the heat burst from him into her body as she suddenly went lax. 

With a sigh, Zevran let his weight sink fully on Lahar, a hand slipping into her hair and clutching it tight, as he whispered in her ear, “ _Amante, es mío, toda la mina. Nunca permití que vaya_.”

 

XXX

Amante, es mío, toda la mina. Nunca permití que vaya - Lover, you are mine, all mine. I will never let you go.


	17. Chapter 17

XXX  
Murder 16  
XXX

“Wait, don’t kill me!” The armoured man was prone on the ground, and Zevran would have ignored his plea, but for Lahar’s hand on his shoulder.

The mage’s face was impassive. “You attacked us. What mercy would you have shown?”

By the man’s looks, Zevran figured he was a mercenary. “He is not much more than a hireling, _bonita_.” 

_Even so, hirelings still have the ability to speak, to spread word._ He hoped his expression conveyed this thought to Lahar. 

“This is no ordinary mercenary,” Leliana finished inspecting one of the dead and approached with a peculiar cast to her features. The Orlesian crossed her arms, pinning the man with a stern look. “Tell us who sent you, and we will spare your life.”

Zevran had to resist the urge to snap at the bard; such decisions were not hers to make or to offer. Speaking out of turn in such a manner was bad form and not something to be done in front of those who may, or may not, live to carry news. Not only that, speaking so was gauche and overly presumptuous. Of course, Zevran didn’t show a single flicker of those thoughts, and to her credit Lahar merely remained silent, staring the man down.

“Ah, look, we was sent to kill the redhead and her companions, but the redhead was the target, miss mage,” this was directed at Lahar, the mercenary correctly realizing who was actually in charge. 

“Yes, to kill the redhead...wait, _what_?” Leliana cried out incredulously. “To kill _me? Quel l'enfer!_ ”

The mercenary shifted cautiously, and the tip of Zevran’s sword went straight to his throat. “Tchk, I would not do that if I were you.”

“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, ser. I got a map of where I was to meet my contact after the job was done,” halting all movement.

“And who hired you?” Lahar finally spoke once more, gesturing for Leliana to take the map from the man while Zevran kept his sword point trained on him. 

The mercenary gave an lopsided shrug, for Zevran had robbed him of the use of his right arm. “Don’t rightly know, miss. Was just given the directions and descriptions and a map of where to pick up the rest of our fee.”

After Leliana had retrieved the scroll and it seemed the mercenary had no more to say, Zevran pulled his sword away only to thrust it into the man’s throat once he had relaxed. With a gurgle and wide, surprised eyes, the hiresword slumped back to the ground. Giving a last kick to the body, rolling it over, the Crow nudged the man’s gorget completely away from his throat and severed both windpipe and the carotid artery, ensuring his kill. 

Behind him, the Orlesian gasped in anger and horror. “You did not have to kill him! He was to go free!”

Zevran snorted once, ignoring her, and wiped his blade free of blood before sheathing it. However, the frigid weight of Lahar’s gaze on his back as he began rifling through the mercenary’s effects made the hair on the back of his neck rise. Lahar spoke a quiet word to the bard, sending her to go about similar grim work, and Zevran kept his head down for a time waiting for Lahar to speak.

“That man asked for his life and was given it. I’m not exactly in the habit of reneging on those sort of deals,” said with frosty determination. Zevran felt a frozen woosh of air and fought off a shiver.

“He was a loose end,” startled to notice his breath frosting in the air and sinking rapidly down. When he looked at the ground, all the grass had turned white and sparkling. Gritting his teeth, he felt irritated that he had to justify his actions. “If he had been allowed to live, he would have promptly gone to inform his contacts and all who would listen of our location and identities. He would have spoken long and loud to any who had ears to hear.”

The air tinkled with the sound of grass shattering under closing footsteps. “And are you not a loose end?”

Stiffening, Zevran glanced over his shoulder at his Warden. “No, I have pledged my loyalty to you, _amante_. This you know.”

“Enough,” somehow the softly spoken word held the weight of crushing ice floes, rolling over him with glacial ferocity -- implacable, immovable and impervious to all pleas or reason. “You are scrambling to defend that which you know was wrong. You use platitudes when your actions cannot be undone, and, even if justified, go beyond the leeway granted to each and every one of us in our positions in the group. We each have our roles, and our opinions are worth something, but superseding another’s rights is...unacceptable.” 

Rising slowly as he turned to face her fully, Zevran answered, “I have killed many and never thought it wrong. You have never appeared to think it wrong either.”

“I had not promised those others their freedom nor their lives.” The air around her sparkled as hoarfrost rose from her body, and her robes took on a moist, crystalline sheen. “I had promised _this_ man his life, even if my hand had been forced by Leliana’s vow of mercy. You countermanded it, publicly.”

“Ah,” nodding minutely, “it is a matter of leadership. I should have waited then until after our fair bard was out of sight.”

If possible, the temperature dropped further and suddenly fat, perfect snowflakes began to swirl around the Warden. “It did not fall under your jurisdiction. If you had spoken with me privately about your worries or taken me aside to voice your concerns, then your actions could have been justified. Now, all I see is someone trying to sidestep the consequences of an impetuous action that ran counter to the wishes of the group.” 

Zevran opened his mouth to say something, but quickly snapped his jaw shut when a line of ice spears sprouted up around Lahar’s feet with a discordant tinkle. _Perhaps it would be wise not to say anything to further incite her ire...._ But he was merely being practical; he had not thought she would react this way, repressing a shiver at the freezing temperature. _Morrigan said that Lahar is unfamiliar with anger. It would be best for everyone, I believe, for me to simply take whatever punishment she decides to serve. Later, when she is returned to her normal disposition, she and I shall talk._

XXX

Dinner had been a silent affair with, oddly, the only person willing to sit with him being Alistair. The Templar had yammered on about the Korcari Wilds, Flemeth, Ostagar, the Circle Tower, demons in the Fade and such. It had been altogether strange, and Zevran had decided he would have to steel himself against a sleepless night, for he was sure Lahar would spend the night at Morrigan’s tent. 

_After all, that is where she goes when she feels she cannot be around me,_ as he listened to Alistair with barely half an ear and didn’t really taste the food he was eating. 

“So, ah, what are the Crows like?” Alistair prodded him with a question finally.

Turning his head to look at the Templar, “Eh? Ah...they are like a large group of friends who all get paid to kill other people. One large, happy family.”

“Oh, right, sarcasm,” grimacing. “Can we pretend that you said something a bit more...I dunno, _believable_?”

Glancing at the young man, Zevran replied, “Alistair, if I were to tell you too much, it would shatter your benevolent world-view. I do believe I have done enough things to warrant another’s irritation with me, and I do not wish to add to their number at this time.”

“Um, well,” scratching at the stubble on his cheek, Alistair frowned, “I don’t think I’d be too upset. It’d probably just be more things to make me want to watch you.”

“Why, Alistair, my dear boy, I did not realize your interests lay in those directions,” reflexively taking the ready target the _shemlen_ so neatly provided. “It is the high cheekbones and pouty lips, is it not? Or the accent, yes? It must be. I knew it. It is always the accent.”

There was some blank blinking, and Alistair’s face went lax as he puzzled out Zevran’s meaning until his entire face turned red, “Maker’s breath! No! Not...not like _that_! Not...not that there’s anything wrong with it, no, I...but...but no! Just... _no_.” The large man drew in a deep breath, “No, I mean, you know, any stories you might tell about the Crows, they may make me watch you more closely. To make sure you don’t do anything...nefarious.” Which statement was followed quietly by, “Or watch your back more carefully.”

It was Zevran’s turn to frown in puzzlement. _And why should you do such a thing?_ He didn’t comprehend that the Templar was offering to take on his usual role as shield. _A patently odd notion,_ Zevran eyed Alistair for a moment before shrugging philosophically. No one watched his back except possibly Lahar. When she wasn’t aggravated with him. Spying Lahar heading for their tent, his frown deepened. _What reason could she have to go there?_ He passed the remnants of his meal to Alistair who, always being hungry, accepted it without a word, seeing that the Crow was obviously intent on their leader. Zevran followed Lahar cautiously. 

Inside, Lahar was brushing her hair in brisk strokes, and the air was chillier inside the tent than outside. She cast him a brief look before she began plaiting her hair rapidly and tossing the length over her shoulder. Licking his lips, Zevran paused on his hands and knees at the entrance to their sleeping area before entering fully. 

“You are tired, _pequeña_?” pulling his boots off and setting them by the entrance. “Are you not going to make your usual rounds?”

“I am too tired to do so,” the answer terse. 

Tugging his shirt free he held it out to his Bonded, waiting for her to take it, “Ah, it has been a rough day.”

She didn’t reply and ignored his shirt, rearranging their combined bedrolls so that they were separate and only taking off the outer layers of her robes before slipping beneath the blankets. Confused, Zevran folded his shirt and set it aside before going to lay down. _If she is still angry, why is she here? In our tent? Should she not be with Morrigan, commiserating over the idiocy of men?_

Rolling onto his side, “ _Amante,_ do you wish me to sleep elsewhere tonight?”

“No,” curling into a ball and presenting her back. “Stay here.”

Clearing his throat, “Then we should lay closer together, so that I may touch you and know that it is you who is beside me and not some other who I may attack.”

A hand flailed out from the blanket, reaching backwards and grabbing his wrist, “Fine.”

Weaving his fingers through hers, Zevran scooted closer, wrapping himself around her form, “ _Mi diosa_ , if you are still angry with me, why come to bed?”

“Don’t,” attempting to squirm away. “I don’t want to be mean and punish you, but right now, I can’t stand you being that close to me.”

Grimacing, “Then why not just work out your anger like a normal person? If you are angry with me, say so. Tell me what you are thinking. Yell, or just take your wrath out on me and be done with it. I am more than strong enough to handle it and am well acquainted with such occurrences. It is best to simply get it over with, rather than letting it fester.”

She flipped over in the bed to face him, “Excuse me? You think I would _hit_ you?”

“Well, if you are going to punish me, get it over with. I do not like this...this being by you and yet not being by you,” growling with a hint of his own aggravation. “It is best I have found, to get the beating out of the way, so that there is time for healing. Then, a sound round of angry intercourse to get the last vestiges of rage from the system and be done with it so that we can go about going to sleep, the way normal people would!”

Lahar’s mauve lips made an incredulous ‘o’ as her entire face went white -- well, whiter -- with shock, “ _Normal_ people? Like _normal_ people? How is...how is that...? You...blood and damnation, Zevran....” When her hand went to his face, Zevran almost flinched, but her touch was gentle. “I wouldn’t hit you. Maybe...maybe swat you. But hit you? No...no. That’s...even I know that’s not normal.”

Uncomfortable suddenly, the Crow shifted away from the soft caress. “If you are displeased with me, then you should either express it fully and work it out with me in whatever method is needed or remove yourself from me as you usually do. I do not like this...half here thing. It is as though you are forcing me to suffer your ire with no way to resolve it.”

“I thought it made you angrier when I stayed away,” brow beetling.

“Angry?” cautiously taking her hand. “No, it...made me agitated, yes. But you only stayed away when you felt you could not come to me. Or so I thought, though at the time I believed you were displeased with me for some reason.”

She sighed and squeezed his hand, “I’m upset with you still. But I don’t want to punish you. Not like that.”

XXX

They were near one of the major roads which would lead directly to Denerim, or at least heading towards one, when Zevran finally decided he should speak up. “This plan of yours, I have some concerns.”

“And?” Lahar sighed, and he could feel the strain between them, even though several days had passed. 

Clearing his throat, “If this Marjolaine hired men to seek out Leliana to kill her, no doubt she also has similar to guard her person.”

“Leliana, Ser Prize and I can handle it just fine,” holding up a hand, palm upwards, a floating globe of ice forming there. 

Gritting his teeth, Zevran pointed out, “There might also be Crows.” Amending rapidly, “Actually, there _will_ be Crows. It is where the largest cell is, and there is even a Crow Master in residence there last I passed through, though I did not make contact with him.”

His Warden sent a short bolt of electricity through the ice, shattering it and shifted her grasp on her staff. “No one will pay attention to a mother, her daughter and a dog.”

Upper lip curling, the Crow snorted, “You look nothing like our Orlesian, and your appearance is far too distinctive to simply allow you to merely stride through a major city center with Crow operatives, Howe’s spies, the scum and chaff, and think that you can blend in.”

“Are you going to provide some useful advice, Zevran, or are you going to pick everything apart and complain the way Alistair does when he doesn’t like something?” the mage didn’t exactly snap at him; she was far too level to do something so crass. 

But the vague hint of fatigue in the words was in some ways worse. _Bah, I wish she would just throw a temper tantrum and be done with it. It would be less bothersome than disapproval, as though I were some naughty child,_ even if in her mind, his actions were equal to Alistair’s.

Wincing, Zevran answered, “I know you cannot be turned from this course, but I will not be left behind. I at least know what to watch for, as Leliana is too preoccupied with her own demons to be much use in a city.”

“No, you are too conspicuous,” shaking her head. “Tattoos, obviously elven, accented and walking like a fighter? No.”

“Oh? And you think that I cannot cover those things?” raising a brow at her, though she paid it no mind and only focused on the trail ahead. “I may not be able to hide my race, but I can hide or alter those other things. Infiltration is something any rogue worth his salt can master. _Mi cielo_ , you have two choices as I see it. I will either come with you, or I will follow. It is up to you which you choose. My advice is for you to take me along as an elven servant with a wheelbarrow to carry our arms and armour.”

The air frosted for a moment before Lahar silenced her abilities. “And if I order you to stay behind?”

“It would be unwise,” said evenly. “For many reasons.”

“Fine, we will change the plans,” the look she cast him was hard, “to accommodate your insistence. But this is to be an in and out job. Find Marjolaine and then leave. Nothing more.”

XXX

Leliana’s hair was done up with fat and flour making a neat little bun, and artfully applied soot created the image of a middle aged woman. Beside her, walking with one hand on Ser Prize’s head the other firmly wrapped about her staff, Lahar’s eyes were covered by a thin wrap of fabric as though she were blind, though he had made sure that it was thin enough she could see through it. And Zevran had made use of soot and fat himself, his hair tied in a tail, now black rather than his natural blond. Bits of grain, fat and some of the paints that he kept for such occasions created pockmark scars over his cheeks. Their clothes had been purchased from the Feddics and Levi so that they appeared to be freeholders turned refugees fleeing to seek family in the city. This way, no one would question an elven servant and a mabari hound.

Or so Zevran hoped.

The guards waved them through along with a group of refugees who had come from near Lothering by their talk. No one had spared them more than the usual cursory glance. Of course the beggars and street urchins darting through the streets could be the eyes of the Guild or Howe or even Marjolaine. It was all the Crow could do not to sneer at the city itself, though. _Disgusting filth everywhere, no dogs or street cleaners, no gutters? Standing pools of...Braska, is that man...oh ugh, he is,_ hiding his grimace at the sight of a legless soldier eating from a plate of scraps that several rats were sharing. The Antivan stepped up his pace just a little, pushing the wheelbarrow so that he stood in such a way as to block the view from Lahar, if she were to glance in that direction.

As they wound their way through the main square, Zevran pitched his voice just so, carefully taking on a flat, nasal accent, “Miss Anna, I ‘ave word tha’ the tavern ahead be a good place for the lil’missus.”

Leliana nodded in apparently weary assent, reaching out to take Lahar’s arm above the elbow. “Poor dear must be tired. Let’s get a bite to eat in you.”

Trundling along, Zevran quietly scanned the square, allowing his gaze to skip over a most distinguished looking bald man and a younger man that could be brother or son. _So out in the open? Interesting,_ making a note of the small flash of ink on the skin at the cuff of the elder man’s left wrist. Black was not a common tattoo ink outside of Antiva, as it required materials and synthesis of a complex variety that most didn’t know or understand how to do properly. The Dalish had an almost black ink which would fade to a navy blue, but it was not that flat black that Antivans preferred. 

_So, I have found our avians,_ maintaining a neutrally subservient posture as they moved by the stalls. 

Keeping up appearances, they booked a room for the night, and Zevran put the wheelbarrow in the horseless stable. Horses were always the first thing to go in troubled times, usually for the army, but as far as he had heard, there was no standing cavalry currently. Then again, it didn’t really matter. Horses would definitely help in their trek, but since none were to be had, there was nothing to be done for it. Not only that, but he knew Lahar had no idea how to ride, and the others might be just as ignorant of how to handle equines. 

Shouldering the bundles of gear masked as simple packs of possessions, the Crow took the back entrance up to their shared room to drop off the gear and go down to the main area downstairs.

One of the serving women was fussing over Lahar, who had opted to play mute as well as blind, as her accent and Leliana’s would clash. It didn’t matter that the bard was good at masking her own accent, but the fact that the Warden’s would still be so different would be glaringly obvious to any who heard them both. 

“Oh here, sweetling, here’s the spoon,” the woman was gently placing the handle in Lahar’s hand. “Would you like some spiced cider to drink?” passing a hand over the mage’s long, sable locks in a maternal fashion.

His fingers twitched, unhappy at seeing someone touch her in such a familiar way. Instead, the Crow went to Leliana who gave him a list of things they “needed” and the address of a “relative” for him to go in search of, as a dutiful family servant would. The guise didn’t chafe, except that it prevented him from reaching out to touch Lahar or lay a hand on her shoulder. So, with only a small dip to both bard and mage, Zevran left the Gnawed Noble to carry out his reconnaissance. 

XXX

Zevran was coasting casually with Lahar on his arm. With a little finessing, her mage robes had been traded for a set of leathers that hugged her small frame, emphasizing each curve in tantalizing ways. While he seemed nothing more than a hiresword seeking a bit of fun. Leliana would follow shortly after with Ser Prize as they moved into position. The door was unassuming and looked like any other door into a set of apartments, but earlier in the day, he had ascertained that an Orlesian woman matching Marjolaine’s description had taken up residence recently. 

“ _Mi diosa_ , remember, I shall throw a gas bomb into the rooms first, so you must not breathe the fumes once the glass breaks,” murmuring to her.

She nodded, her braid slithering against leather with the motion, “I understand.” Lahar squeezed his forearm, glancing up at him, “Don’t get in my way once I start casting. It’s been awhile since I’ve had to deal with close quarters fighting.”

There was a trill behind them signalling that Leliana was about to be upon them, and he stole a quick kiss from his elven lady. “Just keep yourself safe, do not worry about me.” That was all they had time for as Ser Prize’s hulking form bumped Lahar and Leliana dropped her shadows. _One Orlesian bard to skewer for the order of the day’s menu. I wonder if anyone brought the butter?_

The door swung inwards, and guards rushed them. 

Zevran had already whipped out his weapons, and with a twirl of his wrists, the blades created a shield of metal that distracted his chosen opponent. Chuckling darkly, he braced his weight on one foot, his other leg scything upwards in a circle that slammed his foot into the large _shem’s_ head, a move so unexpected that there was no guarding against it. Metal squealed at the impact, and the _shemlen_ collapsed to the ground like a toppled bottle. The Crow made sure of the guard with a shove of blade into eye socket, ripping it free as he turned to face the others. Ser Prize’s mouth was bloody, and Lahar had a nimbus shimmering around her, distorting her outline, red dripping from her _dar’misu_ as she flung out her hand, a shaft of ice flying into the last, swaying guard. 

The giant Qunari growled, attempting to take a step forward, but Leliana stabbed an arrow up through his jaw, all the way into the Tal Vashoth’s brain pan. Quickly surveying the damage, Zevran nodded to himself in satisfaction. _Why she insists on using a bow in a building makes no sense to me._ He cast a look at the bard who checked her arrows and then signaled that she was ready for the next room. 

Rotting flowers and cat urine – common ingredients in the most expensive and pungent of Orlesian perfumes, though few could pick out the individual scents that comprised it – swamped his nostrils in burning acridity. It was enough to make Ser Prize sneeze wetly all through Marjolaine’s dripping lies. _Pfah, my gas bomb will have no effect in this,_ thinking with ill humour, even though of course it would. But the stench of perfume was enough that, in and of itself, it could be considered poison.

He could see the upraised plates of traps at the corners, and he waited only long enough for the women to stop their harping, and Lahar’s cold statement that Marjolaine must be “dealt with” to throw the glass beaker at Marjolaine’s face. It shattered on impact, and he sucked in a deep breath before the fumes spread, diving for one of the plates. With a quick flick of a dagger, he severed the mechanism that would have released whatever nasty surprise the trap would have spewed if it had been discharged. 

There was much choking and coughing, but Zevran paid it no mind, ignoring the rushing in his ears and the tearing of his eyes. He had selected his target, a mage, and found himself struggling to halt the mage’s casting. Snarling breathlessly, he cut through fabric, skin, then bone, lopping a hand off at the wrist. The mage screamed, dropping his staff and clutching at the stump, then he was dead with a gurgle. Flipping his attention to the rest of the fray, the Antivan cursed at seeing another mage and another trap. Ser Prize and Lahar were busy trying to kill the bard and the rogues with her, but the second mage was taking all of Leliana’s attention. 

Flying by as he ran crouched low to the ground, Zevran hamstrung a rogue in passing as he headed for the second mage. This one was much quicker to dispatch, Leliana’s arrows breaking the mage’s concentration enough for him to have time to deal with the trap and then the mage himself. That left Marjolaine who, even unarmed, was able to keep Lahar off of her. His little Warden was covered in blood, not being made for close-quarters fighting, and a shock of anger roared through him. The Crow let out an ululating cry as he tackled the Orlesian to the ground, and Zevran dropped his weapons in favour of grabbing the thin neck of the bard and slamming her head repeatedly into the ground as he straddled her. It was inelegant, but effective. 

A sudden thrum of energy coalesced around Marjolaine’s skull, and Zevran tasted ozone in the back of his mouth just before the bard’s head turned black, the skin crackling and peeling away, hair standing on charred ends. Lahar was crouched near him, spreading the fingers of one hand as a line of electricity jumped from her palm to Marjolaine’s now baked skull. Just before the energy reached him, it snapped off, ending so abruptly that while Zevran felt his own hair standing on end, there was no damage to him other than singed fingers. Stinging cold flowed through him, healing the electrical burns, and he rocked back on his heels shaking off the effects.

“Dear Maker,” Leliana sobbed once, before containing herself, arms wrapped around her middle as she doubled forward. “It...it is...done. I...I think I need...some time to myself.” Staggering to the door, shadows encased her as she left the apartments and the corpse of what had been her mentor.

 _Probably her lover, too,_ a not-quite-pang of sympathy touched him as he took in her reaction. 

Lahar stood up gracefully, the nimbus falling away as she held her hand down to him, “Are you alright? I saw the first mage strike you....”

He accepted her hand as he rose, all the better to pull her to him. “It was nothing, I had not even noticed. Here, let me look over you.”

Sticky brown-black blood was splashed over her leathers, face, arms, legs and neck. Growling to himself, he went to a wash basin in the sleeping area and dampened a rag so that he could wipe Lahar clean. She stood still, letting him take her hands and wipe at them aggressively to remove the blood from each digit. It took some doing, and before he finished, Zevran could smell the released bowels of the dead, but he didn’t care. He only moved to dump out the water and pour more in the basin so that he could see to Lahar’s face and neck. 

“I can get clean at the tavern,” she said as her mouth was smooshed to one-side by his vigorous rubbing at her cheek.

“How much of this is yours?” His eyes focused on a particularly ground in bit. 

The Warden shrugged, holding still for his ministrations. “I got cut on my leg, but that’s healed up now.”

Falling to a squat, the Crow shoved aside the pleats, inspecting her thighs until he found the faint line and wiping that area clean before kissing it. “I do not like you being in the thick of things.”

A hand rested atop his head for balance at the odd stance she had to take. “Well, we weren’t out in the open, so we knew there was a chance I’d get hit. I thought that’s why I’m wearing armour and why I brought the _dar’misu_ instead of my staff.” 

“While yes, that is the logic, it does not mean I have to like it,” snapping at her.

Partially satisfied that he had her as clean as he could without a bath, Zevran quickly set to dragging the bodies from the entrance-way and into the back room. Such actions gave him time to mutilate the faces so no one would be able to guess the identities later. There was no way he was going to let Lahar see him hacking fingers off, cutting faces away, and pulling ears off and eyes out. In an empty pillowcase he stuffed the identifying body parts and set them near the front door. He would dispose of them later. 

A last pass over the apartments yielded a veritable treasure trove of items – gems that he pried from settings, a bow, and some miscellaneous things that should fetch a bit of coin. Also, there was another set of daggers which he decided he could keep as spares. Mostly, the Antivan didn’t ask for gear, as he merely took what he needed from the dead and stowed away a few odds and ends here and there. But the jewelry had reminded him of what Lahar had said – that she had never had anything nice to wear simply for the sake of its beauty. 

Lahar was balled up on the bed with Ser Prize, dozing, while he went about his grisly tasks, and he was loath to wake her, but sleeping near the dead was unwise.

Sitting on the bed, he tucked a stray lock away from her cheek. “ _Amante,_ it is time we quit this place.”

She didn’t say anything and only yawned a little as she slipped from the bed, Ser Prize grunting as he hopped to the floor. Upon exiting the building, the dark of the night made his neck prickle. They were being watched.

“Ah, so good of you to join us,” the Antivan accent rolled from the tongue, unblunted by years in other countries, and Zevran recognized the voice when he hadn’t recognized the face earlier in the day. “Before you attack, a word if you please.” A small lantern was unshuttered, a shaft of light casting its yellow glow, “I can have someone dispose of the...results of your night’s business. Come, do not look so happy to see me, Warden. I have no intention of completing another Master’s contract.”

“Ignacio, you weasel, what are you doing here?” Zevran hissed at the Crow Master.

“Hmm, Zevran, yes? You are of no note, as you are dead to me. See that it stays that way, whoreson, and things will be well,” gesturing for them to follow him as he headed towards the tavern. 

The temperature plummeted, and the flame in the lantern guttered, “Whoreson, son of a slave, whatever, it’s all the same. If you please, try and keep insults to a minimum. I am fully capable of bringing down a few buildings around your ears and leaving you nothing but a smoking corpse.”

Ignacio halted his steps, turning to eye Lahar warily, “No true offense was meant. If you will take note of who initially bandied about insults, it was not I. If you please, forgive me, for I do have business to discuss with you.”

Lahar’s expression was lit strangely as she summoned up whatever shield she had used earlier. The blankness of it, utterly impassive and impervious to anything, just like the face of a glacier, was far more frightening than the dead eyed expression all Crows learned, for that at least seemed as if it had once been human. No, Lahar merely _looked_ at Ignacio who, as any Crow Master should be, was a creature to be feared himself. 

He still took a step back. 

She cocked her head, examining him, “I have to please nothing nor forgive anything. What is your business with me? Other than the contract on the Wardens?”

“This is a most exposed place,” Ignacio protested.

Zevran debated killing the Crow Master outright, but there was sure to be backup in the alleys, so instead, he noted, “Exposed or not, if you wish to converse with someone, it is bad form to ignore their preferences. Especially when there is no gain for them in doing what you wish.”

The old man grunted and turned slowly. “Is that what you say, Warden, or what your guard says?”

“He knows my opinion.” A little tongue of flame leapt from her hand to relight the lantern. “And the fact that I do not like to waste time, which you are doing at the moment. If you have something to say, say it or get out of my way.” Zevran thought he saw the corner of her lips tilt just the smallest bit. “Or don’t. It doesn’t particularly affect me either way.”

 _But it would certainly affect you, Ignacio,_ and Zevran found that he did the smirking for them both.

Ignacio dipped a bow, fist to his heart. “Your wish, Warden.” He straightened. “I have a proposition for you. Times are busy with the Blight, nobles disagreeing, and such. It brings out the...ah...best in people.”

“Your point?” Lahar was utterly still, motionless, even her breathing was near undetectable. 

“He is saying he has work for us, my Warden,” Zevran stated smoothly. 

“Could be, if there are any...enterprising individuals who are willing to tell me news, some coin could be had,” Ignacio nodded, making heavy use of innuendo. “So many are likely to have accidents in these times, and I have need of extra ears. It is...something to think on, yes?”

His Bonded began heading towards the inn, “I have no need for coin.”

“Keep it in mind, my dear. There are many benefits other than coin to be had,” Ignacio called just loudly enough for his voice to reach their ears. 

XXX

Zevran had excused himself from their shared room, letting Lahar provide what comfort she could to Leliana. Being at loose ends, he went to the main room and made inquiries with the bartender on call this late in the night, or early, depending on one’s view point. 

“Ah, is there anyone who might need a helping hand?” Hooking a foot around a stool-leg, the Antivan leaned his elbows on the bar, sliding a few silvers towards the barman. “I find that the bones have not been so kind of late.”

“Your master know you’re larking about taking jobs?” the bartender plunked a tankard of beer in front of the elf, snapping up the money quickly.

Lips twitched ruefully, “What my Master does not know, he does not care about.”

“Mm, well, it’s your skin,” shaking his head. “But there’s a few things, if you’re of a mind.”

“Oh, I probably am,” taking a long, slow sip from his drink. 

The transactions were rather easy – some components for poison and Zevran said he would keep his eye open for some letters. Later, after he finished his drink, he would go and dispose of certain...indiscretions, tidying up loose ends. He didn’t particularly care who was offering these low level jobs. It appeared that there was some minor scuffle going on amongst the criminal elements of the city, and he was promising aid to both groups. One of the best ways to gain profit and information was to know and understand the underworld of a town or city and to keep them too off balance to interfere with one’s own ends, so this was just part of that.

Before he left to go see to these little trivialities, he had a question, “Do you know where I might find a blacksmith willing not to ask any questions? I find I am in need of such a person.”

“Heh, got some goods that are a tad too hot for you?” looking up from taking inventory. “I could take them off your hands you know.”

“Some of them surely, but some I would prefer to keep in less...ah...telling shapes,” tapping his belt with a knuckle.

“Hmph, well, you’ll be wantin’ Master Wade then. He don’t ask anyone questions, too busy with his fancy work, but his lad, Herren, only cares ‘bout a profit.” The bartender returned to his bookkeeping, waving in the general direction of Wade’s shop. “Usually up at the crack o’dawn, sometimes earlier if Wade’s on a kick.”

The Crow conveyed his thanks with a few more silvers and went on his way.

 _Ugh, and none of these idiots could think of how to dispose of a body on their own? Sloppy, so very sloppy,_ smacking his hands in satisfaction as the second body slipped into the well. _Tchk, what these people need is someone who knows what they are doing. A little order never hurt a group of thieves, and they are in sore need of it. Ah well, thoughts for someone else to have. I would rather be elsewhere than king of this rotting shit heap._

Following the sound of hammer on metal he went to Wade’s workshop, ready to do a bit of business. 

“Ah, we are not open to the public at this time,” a blond, short haired, harried looking man said.

Holding up his hands, Zevran answered “I am not exactly the public. But I do have a small bit of business. Please, it will only take a few minutes of your time.” Quickly he explained his need for finished materials and a few tools, as he proceeded to pull out bits of armour from the pack he had been carrying. “I need some wire in several gauges fit for making thin, jewelry style chain, some pliers, a file and a set of cutters.” Before the blond could say anything, he pulled out a twisted helmet. “Silverite, and I have plenty of it. All I need is thrice my height in wire of each gauge. I also have some gold that I do not need, some silver I do wish to have – maybe as beads, if you have the time.”

Herren’s eyes went sharp eyeing the headpiece. “How much more?”

Giving him a knowing smile as he pulled the smaller items from hidden spots about his person, Zevran dumped broken dagger hilts, swaths of green viridium chain, and the rings he had accumulated. “Would vambraces and greaves be enough to sweeten the deal?”

“Ooh, goody! Silverite! I can make a set of chainmail or scale. Oh, Herren, can I? Can I please?” the bald man had set aside his work, veritably skipping over to the front area. “It’s been so long since you’ve let me have any good materials. I can whip up what this man wants in a flash! Just let me have some _fun_!”

XXX

Entering their room, Zevran spied Leliana sleeping in a heap, curled close to Lahar, with her head on his elf’s bosom. His Warden was propped up against the wall, stroking her hand over the Orlesian’s hair, yawning periodically. _What? Surely she should have slept by now,_ frowning his concern.

“ _Mi tierra_ , why you have not slept?” speaking softly so as to not wake the sleeping bard.

A jaw cracking yawn was smothered behind a hand. “You haven’t either.”

Sighing, he sat near her, draping an arm around her shoulders, “I am used to it. A night here or there is nothing to me. It is only when I go days without that I suffer any ill effects.”

“I couldn’t,” nestling closer, taking care to not dislodge Leliana from her spot. “I didn’t know where you were or if you were safe.”

Resting his cheek atop her head, he toed off his boots, which landed with soft thumps on the floor. “Only doing a bit of exploring and information gathering. I did not travel outside this area, you need not have worried yourself.”

“I thought maybe Ignacio caught up with you,” one of her small hands landed on his thigh, wiggling its way between the pleats in his leather kilt. 

“Shh, _amante_ , sleep, I am here,” squeezing her to him. “That old buzzard would not be so obvious. What would you do if something had happened? No, he is perfectly aware you would hunt him down, and your little display this evening showed him some of your mettle. It is a rare thing indeed to make a Crow Master flinch, and you did so, all on your own.”

Lahar murmured, “Display? I didn’t do anything.”

Zevran found himself unable to hold back his chuckle. “Oh yes, _mi hermosa diosa_ , you did. Most people with any sense in their skulls would be at least a little impressed by a Crow Master. And those without it would be full of bluster. You, my dear little one, are not the sort to fear or to be impressed without proof.”

“Why should I be?” Lahar yawned again, and he could feel her losing the fight to stay awake. “He’s a man, like any other. He bleeds the same, he shits the same, he eats the same. And he can die the same. There isn’t anything superior or mystical about him, no matter his status. He’s a man, no more, no less. I suppose we should see what he wants later. Maybe we can figure out a way to keep him off our backs.”

“Shh, no more thoughts, _bonita_ , rest,” kissing her temple. “Save it for after you have slept.”

XXX

“ _Ma petite cherie_ looks so tired,” Leliana raised her head, blinking sleepily and knuckling away the gum of dried tears. 

Keeping his eyes mostly closed, “She did not sleep until I had returned.”

“Hmm, and you have not slept at all, _oui_?” pulling her fingers through her hair. “ _Non_ , of course you have not. I will go run some errands and take Ser Prize outside for a few hours so that you both may rest, as you have been so kind as to allow me to borrow her bosom.”

Quirking his lips, he snapped his fingers softly towards the mabari hound, “Ser Prize, would you kindly guard our bard, hmm? I shall guard our mistress, but it would not do for our lovely Orlesian flower to be left by her lonesome.”

Said woman was dressing quickly in leathers and pulling her hair back into two short tails, “Just how smart are you? Hmm? Brave, kind...yes. A bit of a glutton?”

Her voice trailed off as she left with Ser Prize in tow, leaving Zevran alone finally with his Warden for some rest of their own.

XXX

 _Taliesin, of course they would send him,_ his steps plodded, and he felt lightheaded as they went to join up with the rest of their little group, heading out of Denerim. He barely paid attention to where he was stepping – his head was pounding, his heart was beating too fast, and sweat prickled his scalp. _Who else would they send? Who else would know my habits? Hmm? Who else might have a chance to unbalance me? No, of course it has to be him._

Name-dropping, Ignacio had let Zevran know the fellow Master Crow’s identity. Taliesin was not just in Ferelden, but was looking for him. Waiting for him. Initially, the _shem_ had probably come as backup, but with no word, and the fact that Zevran had never made contact with Ignacio...that left only two possible conclusions Taliesen would be able to come to. The first would be that Zevran had died and left his contract incomplete or the second, that he had gone rogue. 

But, of course, Taliesen wouldn’t assume he was dead. The _shemlen_ had worked too hard to keep him alive. He touched the back of his neck and the hair that was now finally at his collarbones. _What effort you put into keeping me,_ amigo _. And now you will kill me too, hmm? So you think._ He glanced at Lahar. _Or do you believe you can reclaim me? Rehabilitate me? No, not even your connections and mama can get me forgiven. And I do not care,_ cabrone _. I can have freedom rather than your chains._

“Warden!” the call was sharp, yet friendly and attention grabbing. “Warden, a word with ye?”

Reacting on pure reflex, Zevran had the man by the collar and slammed face-first into a wall before he could say anything more. “What did you say?”

“Ah, ah nothin’, Ser Crow,” with hands raised and pressed beside his face on the side of the building, the fat, red headed, human stuttered.

Zevran had a knife out and was about to plunge it into the man’s kidney, but Lahar stopped him, “No, hear him out.” The second part was directed at the sweating _shem_ , “How do you know who we are?”

“Arl Howe – may the Maker bless him with boils on his nethers – had his men pass around portraits of you to the guards,” speaking quickly, “and I happened to get a glimpse of one. But nobody likes that rat-faced weasel, so I don’t think the guard or nobody will say anything even if they recognize ye.”

Digging the point of his knife into the unnamed man’s back, Zevran picked up the conversation, “And why would you be looking for the Warden? Hmm?”

“Name’s Slim, Slim Couldry, and if ye’ve heard of me, then I ain’t been doin’ my job right,” casting a nervous glance back at Zevran. “I’m a bit of a sneak thief. It’s my specialty, and I was just gonna offer up some information, that’s all.”

“For a price,” Lahar said, tugging off her eye bandages, probably to get a clearer look at the rogue. “And what information do you have, and why would I want it?”

“Well, it may make a profit, and it’d put a bee up Howe’s skirt no doubt. It’d be a bit patriotic to do that, now wouldn’t it?” Slim said, finally relaxing, even though Zevran had yet to release him. “Nobody believes what Teyrn Loghain says ‘bout the Wardens. They’re just too scared to take direct action. But indirect action? Oh, many of us can do that. Even so, there’s things that need some muscle, which most of us don’t have. You do. It could earn you some goodwill, and it’d knock those two off-kilter, know what I mean?”

Lahar nodded at Zevran, indicating he should let Couldry go, which Zevran did reluctantly, “I’m listening.”

“Well, I hear tell that there’s a Crow lookin’ for this one here,” nodding at Zevran. “And he’s a right nasty fellow too. Came and commandeered most of the local branch’s group, which didn’t earn him no good feelings from the bald man. He hangs out near the docks, just so you know, and he’s been stirring up trouble for all of us. That information’s free. But for the other bit, a donation of ten silvers to a good cause would be welcome.”

“And what cause would that be?” Zevran asked evenly as he watched the road to the main gates and tucked the knife away. 

“Why to the poor, namely my family. I’ve got more cousins than I’ve got toes and fingers. I swear my uncle must walk around with it up constantly,” chuckling. “Two wives he supports, never you mind the Chantry. It’s all that can be done to keep everyone fed.”

Lahar fished in her pouch and handed over the money, “We were just leaving, but we might have time for a fast excursion.”


	18. Chapter 18

XXX  
Murder 17  
XXX

Despite his continual discomfort since – well, since he had left Antiva really, but this time it was far worse after leaving Denerim – Zevran carried on as best he could. Lahar had become strangely frantic and affectionate in the days after leaving Denerim as they continued towards the bastion of Soldier’s Peak. There was an almost desperate air to her when they were alone. In the mornings he would awaken not because it was morning and time to rise, but because Lahar would be scooting down to take him in her mouth. Not that he minded particularly, and he did like the fact that she was seeking him out physically. But, it was the fact that she would be shaking and reaching for him as though she expected him to disappear at any moment that made him uneasy.

Worries about what Taliesin would do plagued him now. Would he go and seek the nearest Dalish with the thought that Zevran had gone back to his roots as he had done once before, so long ago? Or would he break into the Alienage looking for him there? Or would he simply wait, figuring that he would have to return to Denerim along with the flood of refugees displaced by the marauding darkspawn? Taliesin was no tactician and barely above average intelligence, but as a fighter he was superb. This meant he was a _threat_ , particularly if he had been able to summon the clout to commandeer so many of Ignacio’s own cell.

Lahar shyly interrupted him as she ran her fingers through his hair, combing it, and stroking down the back of his neck, while she knelt behind him, “Zevran? I...I have a question.”

“Mm? Yes, _mi niña_ , what is it?” tipping his head back, gazing at her inquisitively.

She scooted around to his front, her hair loose and wild around her bare shoulders as they readied for bed, “How do you like it?”

Tracing her eyebrow with his thumb, he slid his palm over her cheek. “Like what, _mi vida_?”

“How...how do you prefer to do it?” biting her bottom lip, and gesturing at their combined nudity. “I...” she drew in a deep, fortifying breath, “I want to do it like you like to best. I know there are other ways, just... How do you like it?”

Taking her hand, he tugged her to sit in his lap, “Hmm...I like it all ways.”

Lahar shook her head emphatically, hands going to his shoulders as she stared at him hard, “I want to do it _your_ way. Not just the way that makes it easiest for me. I want to be with you in _your_ preferred way.”

Lying back on the pallet and taking hold of her hips, Zevran answered, “I like to have my hands free to touch you.” Running his fingers over her rib cage to her belly and then up to her breasts where he cupped them lightly. “It is difficult to touch you like this when I am atop you.” Crossing his legs under her bottom, Zevran sat back up, wrapping his arms about her. “But I also like to be close to you, which if you were atop me would be somewhat difficult and have you still able to touch me as well. However,” dropping a kiss to her shoulder, “this way I can have both.”

“What else?” her expression painfully earnest as she stroked his chest. 

Frowning minutely, “ _Amante_ , why so frantic suddenly? We do not have to plunge straight into everything.” 

His mage leaned in and kissed him, then tucked her face into his neck, “Please, show me.”

Cupping the back of her head, Zevran sighed, feeling himself stir at her proximity and the urgency in her body language. There was a saying in Antiva about the flavour of a plant that was more popular than even _chocolate,_ called “vanilla.” For some reason, he found it to be rather true of himself. The number of marks who preferred the more “diverse” pleasures he had been trained in left him a bit tired of those manners of sharing a body. Yes, it was true he could enjoy just about anything, and yet he had found gradually over the years his interests lay more towards “vanilla.” It was tiresome to always be creative, and after a point, creativity became more of a chore as opposed to enjoying the easier pleasures that were low-key and accessible to most anyone. So really, he had been content with what he and his Bonded had been doing for the most part, not really missing any of the more exotic tendencies Crows were so famous for.

“Hmm, well,” tugging her by her hair very, _very_ gently, so that her head tipped back, “I do not break easily as you know. I have a particular weakness for my hair to be pulled.”

Fingers buried themselves in his hair near the scalp and she pulled far too lightly, “Like this?”

“Harder,” repeating the action on her own hair, but maintaining the gentleness, and then raking his fingers through the length of her hair. “For you, you may not like it as hard as I. But unless you are ripping my hair from my head, I quite like it.”

Several experimental tugs later and he was hissing as his head jerked backwards, “Like this?”

“ _Si, gusto!_ More,” his lids slipped closed and he felt her coming in to kiss his jaw. _“Perfecto.”_

Lips went to his ear, pressing soft kisses that grew bolder with each of his groans, and Zevran massaged Lahar’s back, yanking her close to him so that her breasts were crushed to his chest. When she nipped his ear, he growled, breaking away enough so that he could return the favour, eliciting a soft gasp and a roll of her hips against his. Wetness spread over his cock and he grabbed her hips, grinding her against him, _See what you do to me,_ amante _? That is entirely your doing...._

It did not take long for her to bite a line along his neck, until she even let loose a little growl of her own, before her teeth sank into his shoulder. No longer able to take much more, Zevran lifted her up just enough so that he could feel her delicate flesh on his tip and guided her down onto him, hard. He rumbled in satisfaction as she whimpered, slipping all the way down his length easily because of how aroused she was. Shifting as she rocked against him in wet, clinging friction, he bowed her backwards so her chest thrust up and he could bury his face in her breasts, licking and kissing interspersed with bites. Lahar’s knees were tight to his back, legs locked around his waist, and it was her pleasured cries that brought every sensation into focus. The knowledge that he was the one with this privilege, that no one else had ever seen her like this – wild and impassioned, fearless of his touch – was what drove his own ecstasy. 

Nails scoured his shoulders, along his arms, to his biceps where her hands finally found purchase, clutching them for balance, though her weight was so slight he could support her himself. Her escalating cries culminated in a moment of silence, her eyes flying wide, and muscles clamping down on him, before fluttering like the wings of a trapped bird. Then came a sob of completion before she was flailing, dragging herself back up to him, a hand plunging into his locks and pulling while her mouth crashed against his. There was no more fight in his body after that. Returning her kiss with as much ardor as he had, groaning into her mouth, he fell to his side and drug her with him. Bucking helplessly against her tight, yielding, oh so welcoming heat, Zevran lost himself fully in her. 

Zevran basked for long, twitching minutes, his face tucked into her neck. Mierda! _I really need to stop doing this, she makes it too hard to think..._ Going over a list in the back of his fuzzy headed mind, _Then again, the fact that I have been chewing deathroot again should decrease the strength of my seed. I also spied some Queen’s Lace that I might be able to convince her she should take. Perhaps as a sweetened tea..._ Lahar brought him back to the here and now after he rolled onto his back, partially disengaging from her, by taking one of his shirts and wiping the sweat of their exertions away. _Eh? That is the same shirt for the last few days..._

Reaching out he grabbed her wrist gently, “ _Amante_ , I have enough shirts that can be used for this. Set this one aside for washing later, hmm?”

Her expression turned nervous and she clutched the fabric for a brief second, “I...we...we shouldn’t use up all the clean ones just for this.”

“Yes, but I have plenty, I did my laundry yesterday,” sitting up, pulling at her fingers delicately. “There are plenty available for this purpose. Pfah, I cannot believe I missed this one,” wrinkling his nose at how the fabric had gone stiff with sweat and fluids. “Filthy.”

“Please,” Lahar made as though she wanted to reach for it, her eyes wide and her expression needy.

Scowling, “Eh? You want it when it is like this? But it is not merely a little dirty and sweaty, it is disgusting and inundated with it.” Giving it an experimental sniff, “Augh! The darkspawn will smell us coming if I do not wash this. Come now, I have other shirts, the one from today should do for your needs, it is not so foul.”

He watched as she deflated, not looking at him, her hands curling around themselves, “Alright.”

“ _Mi vida_ , what is wrong?” dropping the garment in his lap so he could tug at her chin. “It is unlike you to be so enamoured of dirty things. Sweaty, a little stinky, yes. You are a bit like a cat sometimes. But this,” gesturing at the shirt, as he touched her lips with his thumb, “is very unlike you.”

“Never mind, I’ll clean it in the morning,” trying to take it and set the shirt aside.

Halting her once more, “Lahar, what is wrong? Hmn? Why not tell me? You have been acting strangely.”

He watched her closely as she flinched, then grabbed the shirt, tossing it aside and wriggling under the covers, “I’m just a little tired. Could you hold me? Please?”

Staring at her, Zevran settled onto his side and gathered her close, _You are not merely tired,_ mi tierra _, why lie to me?_ She burrowed into him tightly, clinging and wrapping herself up in him, tucking her head into his chest, effectively hiding her face from him. _Since Denerim, you have been thus. Is it the news of the Crows looking for me? And you as well, effectively?_ No, that did not make sense, or at least it made _too_ much sense. Lahar’s mind was a convoluted place, no matter that her outward logic was straightforward and blunt. It would be easy to assume that it was her fear of his mortality and the threat to their mission that drove her to these out of character actions. 

Licking his lips, Zevran reached backwards, covering their small jar with its piece of elemental rock, dousing the tent in relative darkness. _Or is it that you think I will leave you, as stupid as that sounds? Are you working so hard to please me, to make me stay?_ No, that was uncharitable. Lahar, as odd as she was, didn’t think to buy people’s loyalty like that. One was loyal out of duty or friendship, not out of purchased goodwill from sexual favours or gifts. Even if she was in the habit of giving things to people, it appeared to be the simple pleasure of seeing others happy because someone took the time to think of them. And yet, this seeking to please him, to cling close, to gather as much experience with him as she could grab with both hands, no matter that boldness in their relationship was not a hallmark of her usual actions...left him disquieted. 

It was easy to see that she was terrified of him disappearing for whatever reason. That was the only thing that he could make heads or tails of. But what reason would he have for leaving? None. Or at least, none he could see. Sighing gustily, he debated probing her more and calling her on the feigned sleep she was using to sidestep him. And yet, he was leery of doing so. Pushing Lahar usually only resulted in fruitless hours spent gaining no solid information, while observation and guiding yielded the most ground because then she wasn’t on guard. 

Perhaps he should talk to Morrigan. The Chasind was often a source of information that could be plumbed when Lahar was being extra strange. She may know, though he was generally loathe to turn to another when it came to these matters.

XXX

“Hmm,” groaning as he awoke to Lahar’s lips wrapping around him, Zevran tangled his hands in her hair, “ _Amante_ , you do know how to wake a man.”

She didn’t say anything, as her mouth was full, and he had to muster up the will to pull her away. Lahar made a desperate sound, and her fingers curled around his prick, as her lips came to his. Unable to resist bucking against her firm grip on his cock, Zevran moaned into her mouth, returning the kiss before grabbing her hands and tugging those away too. 

“Zevran,” pleading as he rolled her onto her back pinning her hands next to her head, “please, I want...”

“Shh,” murmuring as he kissed her cheek. 

But her legs came around his hips and she bucked, impaling herself on him even though he could feel she was barely moist enough to do so. Still, he couldn’t help his body’s reaction to her encasing him and the roll of her hips. At least not for several minutes. Yet he knew he had to stop, had to pull away just enough, because she was so obviously frightened he would leave for some reason. This was no way for them to be, that much he knew. He had to at least treat the symptoms, even if he didn’t know the root cause. Panting, Zevran arched away from her, his fingers laced with hers beside her head, and he slipped down her body in spite of her frantic legs struggling to pull him back in. Resting his head between her breasts, his ear over her heart, the Antivan let his breathing slow, clenching his eyes shut. 

“Please, don’t stop Zevran,” sobbing, her calves sliding over his back and sides, thrashing under him. “I want to please you....”

“Enough, _mi cielo_ , enough,” groaning into her chest. “Listen to me. We have time. I am not going anywhere.”

His Bonded stilled, her heart beating too fast against her ribcage, “I need to please you, Zevran. Why won’t you let me?”

"My dear, sex is...sex is not all that pleases me,” rubbing his cheek against her skin before propping his chin on her breastbone to frown up at her.

She wouldn’t look at him, her face turned away, "I know, but I want to please you."

Sighing, Zevran gathered his thoughts as quickly as he could, "Do you know what I enjoy so much about being with you, _mi diosa_?"

"No," her fingers clenched over the backs of his knuckles spasmodically.

Zevran gathered his thoughts and sought to explain, "Hmm...well, amongst the Crows there are all sorts of pleasures – experimental, masochistic, sadistic, athletic – whatever your desire. A Crow can do it just as well as any whore, if not better, as we can enjoy it all."

"Oh. We can do that," but he could see the way the muscles of her throat worked as she swallowed nervously.

Shaking his head, pressing his lips to her thin collarbone, "No, no...listen...” It took him a moment to search for the words, “It takes much effort to be like that all the time. There is always this striving to do more, be more experimental, and the best at anything. But, it is tiring after awhile. It loses the intimacy. I have had orgasms that left me a shaking puddle of addled nerves. And do you know that even that gets boring after years of it? So, so very boring. I have found that pleasing the person I am with is what enables me to enjoy it at this point."

"You please me," flushing momentarily as she said it with conviction.

Releasing her hands so he could prop up enough to kiss her pointed little chin, "I know. And it is that intimacy that makes it best for me. Sex like the Crows are renowned for is for the young and ambitious. Or for those who are no longer able to find joy in the little pleasures." Nestling into her closely, Zevran slipped his arms under her, tangled himself up in her and tucked his mouth against her throat. "This is sometimes just as good and pleasing to me as sex. The orgasm, the completion...for me, it is not needed. It is nice, but it is as easily attained on my own as with another."

"I don't understand," slowly she stroked his shoulders and back, and he let his lids fall shut, enjoying the quiet of this moment.

Humming in the back of his throat, "This, this easy sensuality, it is good. There is no demand in it, and sometimes I like that. I know I will not hurt you, and I know you have no desire to hurt me, and so we can lie like this, close as two bodies can get without effort. That is enough sometimes – a simple moment to exist in."

Zevran felt Lahar slowly relaxing, and he was lulled by the beat of her heart and the way her hands moved over his back and neck, occasionally venturing into his hair and massaging his scalp. _So strangely peaceful,_ sighing to himself. He had never really let himself enjoy much of this, no matter that it had been something he craved. There were times – with Rinna, with Taliesin, sometimes together, sometimes separately – that he had been able to have such tranquil moments. But they were infrequent and had often left him confused. Now was not too much different, the confusion was there, however it was minimal. It was easier to simply accept the pleasure as a pure thing, uncomplicated by need or give and take.

He was half asleep when Lahar broke into his drifting, “What do you think love is?”

That was a loaded question and one that should make him more alarmed than it did. In the past when someone asked him questions like that, he would offer up something glib, either to encourage the thought that he might possibly feel something for the person posing the question or to put them off. His answers had always had a purpose that served his own benefit, not the one asking the question.

Instead, he was truthful, eyes remaining closed as he sighed into Lahar’s alabaster flesh, "I was born of a whore, sold as a slave, raised as a killer and brought up on sex and blood and pain and pleasure and murder. The lines are so blurred, sometimes, it is hard to see past them. What would I know of love? If I felt it, would I know what it was? Probably not. It could hit me over the head and beat me stupid, and would I know that it was love? I cannot say, because truly, I do not know what it is."

"I don't really know either..." and he felt her staring at him, her tone perturbed and clearly befuddled. “It’s...odd. People talk about it all the time. Leliana is always telling stories, and Alistair holds it in high esteem. Morrigan reviles it, and Wynne thinks it is only for those who are free of duties and burdens. They talk about it, but they can’t tell me what it is.”

"Hmm, the Crows view love as a tool. A weapon. I am trained in the art of making others fall in love with me.” Grunting in faint, remembered disgust, “It is easy. You pay attention to the target, compliment them, agree with all that they say, cater to their every insecurity and provide them with physical demonstrations and gifts. I can say the words, but I do not actually understand them. The Crows teach that it is basically sex, attraction, need and power, something easily replicated and fanned into an obsession. It is little more than a mathematical equation in their eyes."

He felt her nodding as she shifted under him, her leg slipping over his hip and downwards, "I suppose that makes sense. But what about the love between parent and child? Friends? Things like that, I think that can be love too."

"Hmm, you are right, most definitely. But that is 'love' that is bred of duty, mutually fulfilling needs, care and such. Is that love? I do not know." Shrugging and raising himself up over her to look her in the eye, “I know that I care for you and that I will protect you. I know that I _wish_ to do those things. Is that love? I am no wiser than you in it.” Kissing her lips briefly, he rested his forehead against hers, “Go on and get yourself something to eat. I can hear your rumbling stomach. I shall join you momentarily.”

Wide, innocent eyes blinked at him and she tilted her face up so she could return the kiss, “Alright.”

Once she left, Zevran gathered up one of the larger blankets and left their tent, heading to the cookfire wrapped up in the blanket. The air this far north was warmer than in the Brecilian Forest, but there was a cold wind from the mountains blowing hard, making him shiver in the warmth of the thick blanket. The ground under his bare feet was still a little moist from the morning’s dew, and he smiled to himself as he scrunched his toes in it before he plunked down on the ground, bare calves and feet sticking out towards the fire’s heat.

Alistair cast him a glance, and then had to take another look, his face amusingly startled, “Zevran! What...Maker’s Breath, are you _naked_?” 

“Relax, my good Alistair,” chuckling at the Templar. “I am only as the Maker created me if you dig deep enough under this blanket. However, I am covered, so you need not fear for your delicate sensibilities.”

Leliana giggled girlishly, “You look rather comfy and pleased with yourself. These lazy mornings seem to agree with you.”

Wynne made a prim noise. “At least there were no rude awakenings this morning.”

Ignoring the old bitch because he was in a fairly magnanimous mood, “Mm yes, days such as this are good for raising my...spirits.” Winking at Leliana, “We Crows need quite a bit of it, neh? So it is good that our glorious Warden sets aside such days to do a body a good turn.”

“If not my mind,” Alistair rubbed his forehead before tucking into the oatmeal someone had prepared for their repast.

Lahar brought him his portion and made as though she would sit beside him, but Zevran would have none of that, dragging her into his lap and quickly wrapping the blanket around both their forms. She made a peculiar little face at him, leaned back against his chest and began eating. Once they were both finished with their morning meal, still in a good mood, Zevran decided a little game was in order. Of course, Lahar would probably not approve, not directly, but he wanted to see her smile today, as she had not in some time.

Beneath the blanket his hands began to wander. “Hmm, _bonita_ ,” his voice taking on a teasing, sing-song quality as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. “We have an audience, it would not do to let them know, hmm?”

His Warden squirmed a little, shifting under the protective shield of fabric, “What are you doing?”

His reply was a chuckle as he found a particularly sensitive spot judging by how she went still, fighting the sensation. No one appeared to notice the fact that from time to time, Lahar would twitch as he continued his assault on her delicate nerves, skating the tips of his fingers over skin and worming past any minor barrier of clothes. He knew she would break and soon by the way her breath kept hitching from time to time. 

And still, no one was the wiser.

Until of course, she giggled, “Blood, Zevran! Stop, stop!”

Chortling, Zevran didn’t, “Ha! Do not fight it, _amante_! We both know I will have my way.”

There were gasps from the others as he rolled about with Lahar, his hands traveling over her speedily.

Alistair cried, “Dear Maker! I don’t need to see that! Can you take it to the tent at least! Maker’s Breath! I’ll go blind if I have to see....” 

The blanket was flung aside fully as they tangled up, and Zevran had his hand under Lahar’s shirt, fingers skittering over her stomach and sides. She squealed, thrashing and bucking helplessly, hands flailing about and battering at his shoulders. He was careful not to linger on one spot too long, knowing firsthand that it could become painful if someone spent too long on a single place, and that was far from his intention. No, what he wanted was to hear her laughter pealing loudly, which was a goal he was doing admirably well at reaching.

“Andraste’s knickers, must you engage in such childishness!” Wynne cried, rising and leaving in a huff. “Horsefeathers and damnable scoundrels!”

Lahar retaliated unwittingly, scoring on his armpit with one hand and the back of his knee with her foot, and Zevran flopped to one side laughing, as his rolled up leggings came partially undone, “Augh! You got me!”

Caught up in the game, his Warden followed, ignoring their audience and clambering over him, her icy fingers jabbing into his pits, her eyes gloriously alight, “Serves you right!”

Twisting this way and that he grabbed one tiny, socked foot, yanking the wool free so he had unfettered access, “Hah! Now we play a little!”

Ser Prize was barking, jumping side to side, as though he were cheering the ‘battle’ on. Alistair had stopped covering his face and laughed, calling out tips while Zevran tussled with his paramour. The Antivan barely paid it any mind, entranced by seeing Lahar lit up like a lantern or a town square on Saturnalia. He had never heard her giggle like this, her face flushed as she scrambled trying to find sensitive spots on him. For a brief second, he wondered why he hadn’t done this with her before. 

“Enough, enough!” laughing when she attacked his feet from where she straddled his legs, he held up his hands. “I yield, _mi diosa._ You have me at your mercy once more!”

She flopped onto her side in the rumpled men’s clothing she tended to wear about camp, many sizes too large, pilfered from himself, or gained from various thugs they had slain, blushing furiously. “I won?”

“Oh, yes, you won,” Leliana said clapping her hands. “You had him when you got him all distracted!”

The look Lahar gave him went straight through him, “I distracted you?”

“ _Si, mi diosa de tierra y cielo,_ you are very distracting,” sitting up and taking her face in his hands, he planted a small kiss on her lips.

He really didn’t care that there was an audience. If he were going to see that their needs were mutually fulfilled and cared for, why should he? Zevran had given up on worrying for being thought besotted. If it garnered him these sorts of smiles and this sort of laughter from Lahar, no matter their grim task, it was worth it. _And Maker damn me for a sappy fool._

XXX

Checking the traps, Zevran made his nightly circuit. Lahar was doing her usual rounds seeing to the others. Afterward she would come and spar with him, and then they would go to bed for a sound round of sex. Pausing, Zevran stretched, shaking his head and laughing to himself a little bit, fully aware that the usual smile on his face was, for once, unforced. _Strange, how acting like a foolish child at play makes me feel so...what? Content? Yes, content. Hrumph, breaking the rules was something I was always fond of, hmm...and today, I have broken most any that the Guild had put upon me. How very novel._

He had thrown himself into games of tag, the others joining in, even Morrigan who would transform and fly away only to appear and tag the others. It was all so out of character, so carefree, as though each of them had needed this time, this bizarre moment in existence, where nothing at all mattered but laughing. Wynne, of course, sat and nattered to herself, knitting something and frowning at their antics, but no one had cared two bits about that. They had found Lahar’s laughter infectious, a musical tinkling that none of them had ever heard, boisterous and free of all masks. 

Sten had joined in, in his own way, telling of plantations with trees bearing nutmeg, the smells of hot wind and the salt tang of the ocean. That had made Zevran homesick, and he wished for a bowl of olives, a cup of _café_ and some good _jamón_ draped over slices of melon. It was always a point of humour between Rinna and Taliesin that it was food that drove him before other comforts. Baths, gardens, luxurious beds, potent spirits, or delicate wines -- they were all secondary to gastronomy. Which really was understandable for someone who hadn’t had fine foods until the Crows offered them, and too often those had been traps rather than rewards. So, when he had finally found fine foods that were actually safe to eat, it had been an education. 

Sex, beds, nice things – those were items Zevran saw as a boy. Food, though, the many kinds of foods and spices that Antiva was famous for? No, that had come much later, and so Zevran well knew that was his true idea of luxury. For others who had not been raised in a brothel, things like nice clothes or soft beds, exciting sex – oh, those were to be coveted, alongside pretty baubles and their like. Food, now that was a luxury, one that Ferelden was sadly lacking. But, a body had to eat and so he ate as well as he could when he could, which did not mean that he ate his fill on most days. He usually forced Lahar to take inasmuch as she could hold because she was so slight. So much casting, so much physical activity, stress, the Warden appetite and other such things were eating away at her body. It was a fight to keep her at a semi-reasonable weight. 

The object of his thoughts was approaching along with Ser Prize. Zevran turned to lean against one of the ever present trees that spanned all of Ferelden, excluding the occasional farm or rolling plain. “ _Amante_ , done so soon?” 

The spell wisp’s lavender glow made her ethereal, but that never gave him any pause. However, her bearing was off, her tread too heavy, dragging. As she came closer he saw her face. It was glacial. _Oh that is never a good sign..._

Startled, Zevran straightened, moving over to her quickly, “Lahar, what is wrong?” 

“This is for you,” holding out a pouch to him which he took, confused.

Its weight was heavy, and he found out why when he opened it and spied finger length bars of silver and gold, coins and gems. His head whipped up to look at her, “What is this?” 

Her hands fell to her sides, fists clenching, “You never ask for anything, so I always seem to forget. The others, they each have a stipend that they get for their own needs, and then there’s the group’s coffers too, to see to their necessities. I...I am unused to dealing with money, so I forget if you don’t ask.” She waved at the pouch woodenly, “That’s almost all of what you’ve earned. It’s not all of it, but it was everything that the main coffers could spare.”

Hefting the leather pouch, he eyed her, “There is about five hundred sovereigns in the party’s chest. This,” dipping his hand into the pouch, feeling the slither of gold, “has to be about half of it.”

“I know it’s not much,” her chin came up, “but it’s yours.”

Suspicious, Zevran frowned, “I have no need of it, my needs are well taken care of.” Nodding back to the camp, “In my pack I have near forty sovereigns of my own. It covers any extra costs I might incur.”

Lahar pushed at his hand lightly, “You could use it to start your own Guild. Or buy a plantation or a cafe or...or anything you like.”

“Then, I can do that after this is all finished,” holding the bag out to her. “I have no need of it at all, Lahar. It could be put to better use for the party’s needs.”

 _What is she doing?_ staring at her bemused as she gestured to Ser Prize who dragged what looked like an overstuffed pack behind him. His alarm mounted when the mabari whined at their mistress but dropped the pack near him and scuttled back, his massive head hanging. Glancing down at the pack, his alarm skyrocketed, recognizing it as his own.

“You should go,” taking a step back. “And...and do what you want with your freedom.”

His temper flared, then cooled, “What are you saying, Lahar? Speak plainly.”

She took a deep breath, “You need to go. I...I release you from...”

Dropping the money pouch, Zevran lunged forward, slapping his hand over her mouth, and hissed, “ _Do not_ complete that sentence.” Shaking her hard, “Do not _ever_ say that. Not ever, for I will be obligated to fulfill my contract. I kill all those I am contracted to kill, Lahar, unless there is some interfering oath. Do not forget that, do you understand?”

Hoarfrost was blotted out by ice pale lids, and the mage nodded. Releasing her, Zevran raked his hands through his hair. _I do not understand!_ he wanted to yell, to scream. But he didn’t. So he stated it evenly, refusing to give in to what felt like betrayal, “I do not understand. This is not a game, _amante_ , yet you are toying with me. So why are you doing this? Explain it to me.”

“You need to go,” she repeated. “Go, start a life, be free. Get away from the Crows, the Blight. Go somewhere where there are Wardens. Somewhere where there aren’t many Crows, or they are too distracted, Orlais maybe. Join the bards, something. Just go.”

Recoiling, he snatched the bag up from the ground, shaking it hard enough for its contents to jingle, “What is this then? Payment? Like I am some common _whore_?”

She swallowed, and he saw her face twisting as she visibly struggled, “We’re all going to die doing this. We’ve all chosen to be here or are forced here by duty. You, you don’t have anything binding you here. Go. Be free. _Go_.” 

Throwing the bag at her feet, he snarled, “I do not _want_ your...paltry gold! I am not a whore! I am not some _thing_ that can be told to simply up and leave once you have gotten the amount of service you desire!”

“Please, Zevran,” the Warden shivered once, face crumpling. “You need to leave. Go live.”

Fighting to contain his anger and confusion, his voice rising, “You tell me to go live, that everyone is bound by duty. Is my oath not duty? Am I nothing but some sellsword, whose word is worthless? You hand me money, you have my gear packed and you then _insult_ me on top of all that?”

Her bottom lip trembled, and that made him so sick to his stomach that his body shook. He almost lost the night’s meal when she sobbed, doubling over to slowly sink to the ground. Weakly she pushed at the pouch, pushing it towards his feet, and then began pulling at her belt and the two rings she wore. One ring bore the Circle’s mark, and he had never seen her without it on. She piled them atop the pouch and then huddled in on herself, head hanging.

“Take it. Take it and go,” sobbing until her whole body shook with the tremors. 

“No,” choking on the word.

His answer brought her head straight up, and he saw shimmering ice crystals on her cheeks, “No? You...you _have_ to! It’s not enough. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry.” And as the wisp dipped and swayed around her, he realized why the ice was too dark – it was blood, crystallized blood and tears. “I don’t have anything else, I’m sorry, Zevran, please, you have to take it, you have to go and _live_. You’re the only one who will, so please...!”

Stumbling away from the image, he braced his hands on his knees as he retched. _Blood? Frozen blood? She cries_ ice _?_ He realized sickeningly that he had never seen her cry before, not in pain or anguish. Not once. _It must be agonizing, to cry_ ice _of all things. It must rip her eyes apart!_ And what hurt more, _I have never seen her cry, and I am what causes it?_ He shouldn’t be surprised that he was ill from the notion, but he was. Lahar in pain made him positively sick. With each revelation about her past, he became more and more ill at the mere thought of her anguish. She hadn’t cried even after the little monsters violated her when she had been barely more than a toddler. And to see her like this... _at his own hands_...after what joy the day had held... 

Coughing as more bitter bile spewed out, Zevran wiped at his mouth, spitting in a vain attempt to free himself of the sickness. His voice hoarse, he told her, “I cannot do as you ask.”

“I...I...I _order_ you to!” the words gasped out, clearly the only other thing she could think of to force him to leave. 

Covering his mouth, his stomach heaved again, but the Crow was made of stern stuff and he struggled to contain himself. _This_ was what she had been working up to. _This_ was what had been driving her. Now they were at a place where all he had to do was pick west or east, and he would be at a port where he could take ship and leave for wherever he chose in a day or two’s travel. _This_ was every single source of her desperate fears. She was no pretty thing as she collapsed like a broken doll, sobbing and hiccuping, beads of pink or dark red ice welling up from her eyes. Lahar was not trying to sway him the way a mark would, she was literally in agony. She had to be.

Straightening, Zevran went to his pack and rummaged around seeking his vials, looking frantically for something, anything, that would put Lahar out of her misery. Something that would force her to stop crying. Something that would give him time to collect himself and take her back to camp, to free him from the twisted up feelings roiling through him. His fingers didn’t tremble as he pulled a needle free to dip into the thick, greenish paste of basic Crow poison. _A small nick, just enough to make her quiet, to make her stop. Sweet Fortuna, anything to make her stop!_

Her face was in her hands, and she flinched when he fell to squat beside her, grabbing her hand quickly. The look on her face, the whites of her eyes seeping blood, torn from the ice crystals – she had to be near blind, and Zevran felt his own expression twist in self-loathing. _She cries for me...? Why must they always cry for me?_ skittered through his mind just as he pricked her wrist. 

Ser Prize had only just then seemed to realize that there might be a threat, and Zevran dropped the needle, holding his hand out, “Hold there! It will only make her sleep!”

The beast rumbled and whined uncertainly while Lahar swayed, whimpering his name, “Zev...ran....”

Catching her when her eyes rolled back, the Crow held her, “Sleep, _amante_ , sleep. Maker, why do you mock me? Why do you mock her? I know I am not the best of men, but what reason have you to justify _this_?”

Ser Prize approached stiff legged, clearly wary, as the Antivan gathered Lahar up, moving to stand, “My friend, I know it looks bad. I used poison on her. But how else was I to make her stop? I am...I am going to take her back to the tent. Do you understand?”

The mabari sneezed and pawed at the ground once as though accepting his explanation. 

“Please, Ser Prize, I do need your help. Can you bring my things? The money is important and shouldn’t be left lying about either, so I can take this,” urgency ringing in his voice as he squatted awkwardly to grab Lahar’s belt, rings and the pouch. “But my pack, that I cannot manage. I have no intention of leaving Lahar, under any circumstance.”

With a sharp bark, Ser Prize butted his head against Zevran’s hip, shoving him back towards camp, voicing his apparent approval of that plan.


	19. Chapter 19

XXX  
Murder 18  
XXX

 

 _Bound by duty and obligations and choice, eh?_ Staring into the fire, Zevran let his hands play with the bit of jewelry he had been fashioning during the times when Lahar was busy with the others. The ring was made up of thin, twisted wire that would collapse unless woven together just so. _My mark, my blood, my time, my care, my words even. These do not prove my commitment?_ And maybe they didn’t. Maybe that morning’s conversation about love had shown her just how damaged he was rather than showing her how much he did feel. Foremost amongst those feelings was confusion, of course, bound up with obsession and care.

And oh, how well Zevran knew he had become obsessed. And why shouldn't he be? He got to see her in ways no one else did, got to touch her in ways no one else was allowed to. He was the one who guarded her in ways no one else could. Lahar was a physical representation of his freedom, of his choice.

She was choice, she was freedom, she was all those things that had been denied him so long. At the same time though, she was shackles, chains and bindings so tight there was no way to break free. All of it was made from stuff far sterner than steel, tougher than dragon bone. It was breakable, but it would be unwise to break those chains. There would be...repercussions if he tried to do so. Truly, Zevran chafed at it, but those locks and heavy things were of his own design. The prison he was in was of his making and to escape it would only be to return to a much harsher place, one that was far worse for having known what it was he had to lose.

And so he had to summon words up and put name to those things that he had been willing to gloss over. Maybe then she would believe his commitment to this. _Well, not ‘this’. Fighting the Blight is for heroes. I am not a hero, nor do I wish to be one. But to ‘this’, to her, to this ink marking my flesh to hers? Yes. That I am committed to._ Pulling the ring apart, he wove the interlocking pieces together again. The Chantry put stock in rings, but Zevran never had. _And yet it is the first thing I make,_ glancing down at the viridium, silver and silverite pieces, how the green, the flat silver, and the steely white flashed with red from the fire’s glow. _Stupid. They break, they get lost, they are outgrown, and they mean more than_ vallislin _? Folly. Sheer, blind folly._ It hadn’t been intended to have any meaning at all other than as a practice run and a bit of bauble to adorn Lahar, to give her something from his own hand, something she had never had before. Nothing more. And yet, it was a ring. _Foolishness._

Alistair interrupted him by plunking down beside him uninvited, “We need to talk.”

 _Words and phrases no one ever wants to hear,_ raising a brow at the _shemlen_. Shrugging, figuring it had to do with the fact that his voice had probably carried earlier, “Must we?”

The Templar bent his knees, propping them up as he leaned on them, “Yeah, we must. Look, I want you to promise me something.”

“I see no reason why I should promise you anything, Chantry boy,” snorting in derision, turning his gaze back towards the fire.

“Look, just...will you at least listen?” sighing in exasperation.

Making a face, the Antivan waved a hand, tucking the puzzle ring away before it could be identified for what it was, “Fine. I have ears, and you are abusing them. You may as well get whatever it is off of your chest so that you can go...eat cheese or whatever it is you do when not bothering me.”

“Very funny, ha-ha,” deadpan and cuttingly acerbic, rather surprising enough for Zevran to glance back at him. “Look, if I can’t get you to promise me, then how about I pay you to do it?”

“Oh? Like what? Need someone killed?” narrowing his eyes at the young man. “Other than Loghain of course, he will get what is coming to him soon enough. Why pay me for that?”

Puffing his cheeks out on an exhale, “No, no. It has to do with Lahar.”

“Pardon?” not bothering to mask the scowl that tugged at his features. “Whatever could you wish to buy from me or make me promise that has to do with Lahar?”

Alistair was quiet, not looking at him, “It’s probably not what you think. I want to...make a contract? Yes, a contract, with you. I want to purchase your vow that you’ll keep her alive.”

Grunting, “She already has my word as to her safety, and my vow of loyalty to her until she releases me from it.”

“That’s just the thing, she can release you from it,” turning to look at him finally, brown eyes intense. “But that’s not all. I want you to keep her alive. To take her wherever you’re going after all this and help her live.”

“I do not take your meaning,” examining the Warden intently for clues. All he saw was determination and a sort of quiet resignation. “There are many definitions for the words you are using, and I am unsure which you mean.”

Alistair bared his teeth in a grimace, “I mean...alive. You make her alive. Like today. I’ve never seen her like that before. And it was you who made her that way.” Scratching the back of his neck, his brow beetled, “I thought...at one point, I thought that maybe I could bring her to life like that. I can’t. I tried. But, I’m...I’m not you, thank the Maker. I’m not an elf or knowledgeable or anything like that. I’m just some dumb, giant, oafish _shem_ Templar. Or something...to her. A burden. You didn’t see her when she came out of the Tower the first time, following Duncan.” Tipping his head back, he stared at the sky, “You didn’t see her...I remember her being so...so tiny. She’s practically child sized. And she was just...looking up at me like I wasn’t there. And I thought...and I thought she was...I thought she needed saving. I knew she needed it. But I didn’t know how to go about it.”

"You listen to too many stories, boy. Every woman is a damsel in distress who is waiting to kill you or take you for all you have and treat you like dirt. The sooner you learn that, the sooner you can learn how to work with it," spouting out the “wisdom” that had always stood him in good stead.

The look Alistair cast him was sharp, “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

He could deny it, but he wouldn’t, so he admitted, albeit reluctantly, “Only most of the time.” Zevran rubbed his knuckles, mirroring Alistair’s pose of leaning his forearms on knees, “But then again, any knight in shining armor is just as likely to be a brigand and an abusive son of a bitch who would sooner rape the coffers, the servants and knife-ears, than have normal relations with those around him.” Shrugging, “My view on the world is a bit skewed, to be honest.”

Alistair turned to face him fully, “So do you, or do you not, think that she needs saving?”

_Yes._

“I cannot save someone from themselves. No one can but the person in question, when it comes down to it,” incredibly annoyed with this universal fact in an unfamiliar way.

“But you could at least try, right?” demanding, the human leaned forward, intently staring at him.

Shrugging once more, “Certainly. I can also cut off my fingers or my manhood. It would amount to much pain and a loss of ability. Just as trying to save someone frequently results in similar loss.”

“ _Look_ , you make her alive,” growling in obvious aggravation at his side-stepping. “I can’t. I tried, and as usual, it wound up an epic failure. It’s what I do best. Failure as a foster child, as a Templar, as a Warden, as a leader and as a friend. I’m the senior Warden here, and who leads? Because I made her. I put it all on her shoulders because I cracked under the pressure. You on the other hand, are the only one who isn’t going to fail. You are the only one here who will for sure come out of this alive. You realize that?”

Zevran flinched at the unintentional echoing of Lahar’s earlier sentiments.

Alistair pressed the advantage, “She never did anything to deserve this, at least I don’t think so. And from what you said, well... Look, this life? None of it was her choice at all. Nothing ever was. Everything was picked out or forced on her, and she doesn’t even know anything at all about life, does she?”

Grinding out his reply, “That would be...a correct assessment, yes.”

“So, you can haul her out of this, keep her alive. And after this is all over, you can drag her to another place and keep her head above water. And then you can help her learn how to swim.” The conviction the Templar put into his statement disturbed Zevran.

_Why is everything pulling me to her? Binding me to her tighter and tighter? What games do you play Fortuna and Fate? Hmm?_

“And why should I do this?” it was said evenly as he struggled to maintain some aplomb.

“I want to take a contract that you’ll do it, since you won’t just do it because it’s the right thing. I want to make sure that you won’t just abandon her. That you’ll do everything you can to keep her alive and living until it’s time for her to go to the Deep Roads,” reaching out, the other man grasped him by the arm tightly.

Returning Alistair’s stare with one of his own, Zevran demanded, “The Deep Roads? Explain.”

“It’s a Warden secret, but if spilling a few of those will encourage you to do something because it’s the right thing and take that contract, give me your vow, fine. So be it.” Alistair’s eyes bored into his, “Once one becomes a Grey Warden, the sands in one of those fancy clocks starts to slip away. In about thirty years from the time one Joins, they have to go to the Deep Roads. The process of becoming a Warden is to take in the Taint. It doesn't really make us immune, it just slows it down. For about thirty years, give or take. For her, since she was so young, she’ll probably have thirty years, probably more because she’s a mage. For someone older, it’s less.”

Zevran found himself reeling at the information, “She has...thirty years to live?”

“Yeah, there ‘bouts,” nodding.

Pulling away from Alistair’s hard grip, Zevran wiped his hands over his face. _Thirty years? She is...she will not even live to fifty. A child, she is little more than a child, and this is the price she must pay? When will she stop having to sacrifice for others and be able to have something for herself? Even I have a chance to be free. And she has none._

Gathering himself, “And what would you pay me with for this contract?”

“Ah...money?” making a confused face at him.

 _Money, always with the money! At least it wasn’t sex._ Snorting, “I am a wealthy man in Antiva. I own a townhouse that I rent out to a noble family. I have stock in a trading company and am a partial owner of a bakery. And atop those assets, I have an apartment that in and of itself is larger than many of the ‘houses’ we come across.”

“Um... but I thought you said you were as poor as a Chantry mouse?” face screwing up. Zevran could practically see the youth doing sums in his head.

“At the time, in hard currency, yes,” nodding. “If I were to liquidate my assets I would have a substantial sum of money. And I also have an outstanding, private, non-Guild contract. There is a person I must find by the time they are twenty-five years of age. If I do, the ownership of a small spice plantation goes to me as well as a fee of eight hundred and seventy sovereigns atop the two hundred and thirty I was paid as a retainer upon taking the contract. That retainer is what enabled me to make the investments I have. I have no need for money, you know, and I have ways of regaining all of it despite the Crows.” Waving his hand, “I have no need for money even now. What I need, I steal or earn in other ways or merely ask for. The security of a plantation and such is already within reach with a little legwork, to be certain. So, what do you have that I could possibly want? I am not easily purchased you know."

The consternation on Alistair’s face was eloquent, "Um...well, I guess nothing, really, other than my life."

"And would you give me that as payment for this contract? Is it worth your life?" Zevran’s mind quickly turned over the possibilities that such a fee would open up.

It would mean that no matter what, Zevran would be able to throw Alistair before Lahar and not have to worry. If... _when_ the Crows caught up, aside from Taliesin whom he was sure could be dealt with, he could offer up Alistair’s head on a nice, neat silver platter. No one had given him a description of Lahar, only saying that a female mage was one of the targets. They hadn’t even known she was elven, of all things. Zevran would be able to say that the “mage” Warden had died possibly, and if he was particularly convincing, justify his long absence as infiltrating the group to facilitate that. He could lie through his teeth that he had only been waiting for a prime opportunity to kill Alistair. And if he had to kill Taliesin, that too could be easily justified with a smile, a shrug and a statement on earning trust. After all, there hadn’t been a time limit set on the completion of the contract.

Alistair’s jaw dropped in disbelief, "Is that the only thing you'd take?"

"Just answer the question! Is this worth your life?" prodding Alistair sharply with his words.

The Templar rested his chin on his fist, gaze turned inwards as he took the time to think about it. And then he slowly nodded, “I put all the responsibility on her when I should have been the one to carry us all, and to carry her. I didn’t do anything. In this, I can do my part and lead. For my sister Warden, yes. My life isn’t worth so much, I suppose. So, yes, the chance at life for her. Yeah. If my life could buy it, then yes. Guess this means I can save her, even if only indirectly. Hrumph, well, it figures.”

Zevran held out his hand to Alistair. "Give me your knife."

Watching him suck in a deep breath, Alistair’s every fibre resonated an admirable stoicism. “So you’ll do it now? Rather than when we’re near the Archdemon?”

“Give me your knife Alistair,” waiting patiently with his hand held out.

The warrior clenched his jaw, then slipped his fingers into his boot, pushing aside the loose part of his legging, pulling out a sharp dagger. “You’ll take the contract?” There was a minor hesitation as he held the dagger’s hilt near Zevran’s hand, “You’ll give me your word?”

He found his lips quirking in amusement at how the man wasn’t even sweating, and how sure he was that Zevran would kill him, “As a Master Crow, I give you my word in the name of the Guild and my own personal honour as Zevran Arainai that I shall fulfill the contract offered if the price is met.”

“Then, my life. Just...could you make it quick?” slapping the hilt into the Crow’s hand.

“Certainly,” snatching at Alistair’s hand before he could react, slashing a line over the palm, shallow enough not to damage anything vital, deep enough to bleed heavily. “Now, do you have any gold?”

Wincing in pain, “Uh, yeah....”

Pointing to the cut and the pooling blood, “Get the sovereign good and bloody, and then give it to me while telling me the parameters of the contract.”

Pulling out a sovereign from the little hip pouch on his belt and clenching it in his hand, he stumbled as he recited, “The contract on Lahar, Warden and mage of the Circle...uh...I want her to have a fruitful, happy life and to have her heart, mind and body guarded by uh...you, Zevran Arainai of the Crows. The price is my life.”

“Good,” taking the piece of gold, “I accept.”

Satisfied with the transaction, Zevran tucked the bloodied coin away and felt himself relaxing if only slightly. _Ways I can show I am committed apparently are varied._ Rings and pretty baubles were nice, but if he went to her and told Lahar that he had taken a contract on her to stay by her side until it was her time, perhaps that would be enough. But, a pretty set of baubles couldn’t hurt. _Hmm...earrings next? Hmph, no. Necklace, I can weave something together quickly..._

“So, uh....” Alistair interrupted his musings, yet again.

Smirking, "Your life is mine. I will decide how it is best used."

Consternation and nervousness bled from every pore, "O-kaaay...that’s...not really reassuring. But alright. I signed up for it."

"It would be stupid to waste a resource simply by claiming my payment early.” Feeling a ripple of amusement, he pointed out what should be obvious, “Particularly since killing you would make fulfilling my contract that much more difficult. So, you live. Until your life needs to be traded in. My advice is that you live well. Maybe you should talk to Leliana more frequently, hmn? You both could do with a bit of companionship."

XXX

Curled around Lahar whose eyes he had bandaged with the strongest poultice he could find, Zevran spent his night in sleeplessness, squeezing the small woman to him whenever she began to thrash with bad dreams. One of her hands was enveloped in his where he wrapped his arm over her, his finger tracing the ring that fit only on her thumb. _I am here. I am going nowhere, my little one. What will it take to prove it to you?_ Gone was the question of “why,” the answer being that his freedom was no longer so important. _Crow, you have played with my head so much, what have you done to me? _was what had replaced the earlier power struggles within himself over what justifications he could come up with.__

__Shrugging the blankets up higher around them, he covered their heads, blocking out any light from outside. Tomorrow would probably have to be another day spent in camp rather than moving on. Morrigan’s earlier scouting had told him that there wouldn’t be a decent camp for another full day of marching. No one was aware of the conflict of the night’s actions, and while Zevran aimed to keep it that way, he had still asked the others what they thought about remaining. Sten had been the only dissenter, but the Crow had taken him aside and informed him that Lahar wasn’t feeling well and was feeling the strain of so much physical activity. That had shut the Qunari up. Sten had stared at him long and hard before nodding and agreeing that yes, they could stay, rather than should stay. It was acquiescence of a sort._ _

__Lahar stiffened as she woke, and he tried to soothe her by kissing the back of her head, “Shh, I am here, _mi niña_.”_ _

__“Why are you still here?” croaking, the Warden tried to roll over but he only held her tighter. “You should have left....”_ _

__“Why did you want me to go?” countering her, mumbling softly into her ear._ _

__He felt her magic in the air crackling, and while he couldn’t see in the pitch black beneath the covers, he sensed her hand move to her eyes, healing the damage her tears had caused. “You don’t need to be here. You don’t have any demand put on you to keep you on this course. Life has chained you enough. You should be free to make your own way and your own choices. To think of yourself and do what you want.” The sharp scent of elfroot filled his nose as she pulled the bandages from her face. “I...I wanted a personal reason to fight this Blight. It’s selfish, I know, but it’s what I want. The thought of you throwing your life away for something you don’t believe in when you can go and be free, bothers me. We’re near Highever and Amaranthine. You could catch a ship and make a life somewhere. I want you to.”_ _

__This was more than she had said in one sitting to him in some time, and it gave Zevran pause, “A personal reason to fight the Blight? Elaborate, if you please, _mi cielo_.”_ _

__“I...” She attempted to wiggle free of his grasp, but again, he would not release her, only curling about her tighter. “I’m a Warden. It’s my duty and purpose to fight the darkspawn. I don’t have any choice in it. Just as I didn’t have any choice in being born and raised in a Chantry orphanage, or becoming a mage and being sent to the Tower. There, I didn’t have any choices either, not really. Become a mage or become Tranquil or die. My mind is all that I have, and they may have called me ‘abomination’ from the day I was brought to the orphanage as they did all the others there, but my mind was all there was. They couldn’t take that from me.” Her shoulders were tense where they pressed against his chest as she continued, “I had no reason to do anything other than be the vessel of information and duty. I never have. Zevran, please, let me have this one thing, this one personal thing. To fight for a single person that is...that matters to me. Not to fight for everyone else. I’ll do it for them too, I swear, but...”_ _

__The Antivan tucked his mouth into her neck as he spoke, “ _Nunca mas_ , you are not thinking clearly. When it comes to you and I, you question everything. Do you truly believe that it is selfish to wish to share something with someone? That for you to be a good and strong person, that you must give up everything?”_ _

__“No I...” starting to speak, but Zevran didn’t want to hear the same stupid things that others had drilled into her head._ _

__“ _Mierda! Nunca mas, amante,_ you will listen to me,” cutting her off sharply. The Antivan had to take a deep breath to calm himself. Anger would do nothing but alienate her. “At best, what you plan will lead to us dying separately. At worst, it is the same result with the added consequence of mutual failure. Who ensures you take care of yourself while you are so busy taking care of others? And what should happen if you pass and there is no one with any true leadership skills about?”_ _

__Lahar shivered in his arms, burying her face in her hands. “Alistair can lead.”_ _

__“And why did he not take the reins in the beginning?” prodding her to tell him what he knew already._ _

__“He...he was in shock over the massacre at Ostagar and...and Duncan’s death,” mumbling even as she shook her head in denial. “But there wouldn’t be any choice if I were gone, he would have to.”_ _

__“ _Amante_ , you and I both know you would not leave him to that fate, and would hang on as long as you could, until you did expire at a most inopportune moment,” pleading with her to admit it. “And then he would be left bereft, suddenly, with authority he has no idea how to use. We are a ragtag band. All of us are here for our own reasons, and no one can make us see eye to eye and keep us on track other than yourself. You expect us to get along and brook no argument on the subject. You take it as natural and expedient. This forces us to do no less than what you require of us without hesitation.”_ _

__Running his hands over her stomach and chest, he sought to soothe her, and himself. He did not like this talk of her no longer being alive. And yet, it was needed. Maybe this time she would listen._ _

__“No, we do what needs doing,” but he could hear her struggling to maintain a certain level of conviction._ _

__Grunting, Zevran decided not to spare her the knowledge of how he would die when the Crows caught him if he had no protection, since it was apparently what might be necessary to drive his point home. “First, they will keep me drugged, so drugged that I can do nothing.” Lahar went still, her head cocked. “And then they will bring in one of the Guild mages. These are not the mages ruled by the Chantry, _mi vida_ , but ones who have been steeped in both healing and blood magics. They will keep me alive, even as they...operate on me. If I am lucky, they might get sloppy, and I will die. Most likely I will survive the trip to face the Guildmaster. Upon arrival, all the Master Crows and Crow Masters within an easy distance will convene to practice upon me. It will be slow. Gruesome. Muscles and sinew will be stripped away, and still I will be kept alive. Perhaps they will re-graft my flesh and muscle onto me, so that they can again strip them away.”_ _

__A shudder traveled through Lahar, and her fingers sought out his forearms, digging in, “They can do that?”_ _

__“Oh, yes, they can. And more besides,” nodding to himself more than her. “The entire time, I will be kept aware. They will give me enough time for my mind to recover so that they can begin again. It can be days, weeks. One Crow lasted a whole five months under such tortures before finally breaking. She was pregnant, just so you know. Interesting what the will to live just long enough to ensure the survival of the next generation can do. They cut the child from her and then ripped it apart before her eyes. And still they kept her alive. They will do as much to me as they can, and then some. In the end, if I live for any period past that, it will be to harvest me for...parts.”_ _

__His Bonded thrashed, forcing him to let her go, and she sat up, throwing the blankets aside to stare down at him in horror, “Parts?”_ _

__“Much goes into making a Crow,” meeting her stare with a level look. He held out his hand, digits spread as far as they would go. “Summon a wisp so that you may see fully.”_ _

__She did as he asked, then reached for his hand, holding it palm up, inspecting the odd middle three fingers, with their extra knuckles. “What is this? I...I never....”_ _

__“Noticed? Hmph, of course not,” bending them to show how he normally held his hand, the posture hiding the malformation. Grabbing a knife he flipped his hand palm down, bracing it on her thigh, and sliced along the bone of a finger all the way back to his wrist, peeling the skin back, unflinching at this self-mutilation, having braced himself for the cruelty and being accustomed to worse. “See?”_ _

__Lahar swallowed thickly, her fingers trembling as she probed the wound. “You have...your tendons. They’re too thick. There’s...too much in here.”_ _

__“Under my skin, that is how I am everywhere,” admitting readily to Lahar more Guild secrets. “That is how all Master Crows are.”_ _

__“This is why you’re so much stronger than you should be,” musing aloud her hands taking on a soft glow as she mended his flesh back together. “It’s why you’re so heavy, too, isn’t it?”_ _

__Flexing his hand to work the icy sting from it, Zevran shrugged. “It is time consuming and delicate work, saved only for the best of us. They will take what they gave to me and give it to another if I survive long enough. Otherwise, they will put my body in stasis and still do thus, but I would not be alive to feel it or care.” Grabbing her chin, he leaned in close. “ _Vir Tanadahl_ , it is the way of three trees. Not one, but three. It is layers and multiples. We are stronger together than separate. Take a single arrow and break it over your knee. It snaps easily, does it not? But take several and attempt the same action, not so easy. Without you, I am at risk. Without me, you are at risk. But the consequences if you fall are far more important to Thedas than if a single Master Crow were to die.”_ _

__As abruptly as he had leaned forward, Zevran flopped onto his back. Reaching out to lay his hand upon her bare thigh, the Crow waited, watching her closely without seeming to. _It is a nightmare you live in, your refuge being duty and what must be done. You have built those walls up around yourself, made a barren wasteland that is always in winter. And yet, there is heat beneath your winter. Please, let me in.__ _

__Finally she lay down, weaving her fingers with his, “No wonder your hands always felt right.”_ _

__Shifting to accommodate her, while pulling the mage in close. “The man who raised you and taught you _Baile_ was a Crow, hmmn?”_ _

__“As if you hadn’t already guessed that.” His elven lass’s voice was quiet and the tent went dim as she let the wisp fade to nothing, “I didn’t know, actually, not until you told me about the ban on _Baile_ and _muerte toca_. I suppose it makes everything make sense then.”_ _

__Zevran slid one of his legs under hers so he could hook them together, “It is all rather neat.”_ _

__“Everything travels in circles,” sighing it out into his shoulder. “You won’t leave, will you?”_ _

__“I thought I had already covered all the reasons not to,” raising an unseen brow at her. “Shall I also add that nothing you do or say could make me wish to?” Stroking her cheek with his thumb, “It is true. You can order me to do so, and I will refuse.”_ _

__Another shiver wracked her and she curled in tighter, “Why?”_ _

__“Because no one should be as lonely in her nightmare as you are,” waiting until she had finally fallen back to sleep before kissing her forehead and waiting for the Fade to claim him once more._ _

__XXX  
 _  
“Ah, you have arrived.” His target turned to look up from his desk at him blandly, clad in fine leather armour, “I would offer you something to drink, but you would have to assume it was poisoned.”__ _

___Zevran leaned against the doorframe in the small villa’s office, waving a hand dismissively, “I would like to say yes, if you were to offer me something, but as you said...” Pushing off, the assassin swung his long braid behind his shoulder, “But the sentiment is duly noted and appreciated.”_ _ _

___His quarry had been difficult to chase to ground. The rogue Crow’s own mother had delivered the task to his care. Taliesen’s mother was a hard woman, and while she had bought what time she could for her eldest son to return to the fold, near eleven years was far too long. Two years had been too long, and at that point Crows had flown their roosts in search of Emille. None had returned. Not even their corpses or any evidence of their whereabouts had ever been found._ _ _

___It was that lack of information that had actually guided Zevran to Emille. There were wide gaps on the maps between the last known sightings of the Crows who had sought out the Master Crow. From there, it had been easy enough for the bronzed assassin to look for the **shemlen** , it had merely involved much footwork. Examining the large, broad shouldered man, he saw the resemblance between younger and elder brother. Both had dark hair and brown eyes, both were powerfully built. But Taliesin was much fairer of skin, being that his father was of Fereldan stock, while he felt it was safe to assume that Emille’s had most likely been Rivani. _ _ _

___“I remember you, you know,” rising slowly to hitch a hip on the desk, crossing his hands over the upraised knee. “Mother was conducting some business at the training facility with my little brother in tow. He had gotten loose, and I had to track him down only to find him with you. Playing hopscotch of all things.”_ _ _

___Cocking his head, Zevran schooled his features into a smile, having to dredge up the memory of how to do so, “Yes, two boys, playing as though there were not other matters to deal with.”_ _ _

___“Hmm, how time does pass,” the brown eyes took on a faraway cast before sharpening and turning on him once more. “How is my youngest brother? Dead yet?”_ _ _

___“No,” Zevran wondered why Emille was talking with him and when the fallen Crow would attack. “He is not dead. He attained his Master’s status some six years ago.”_ _ _

___“Really? How surprising,” brows climbed high on his forehead. “Mph, Mother’s doing no doubt. Or is it yours?”_ _ _

___He forced himself to smirk, as though he were amused, “Ah, that would be telling.”_ _ _

___Emille snorted, staring him down, as he made his observation, “Still new to your Master’s level, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”_ _ _

___Zevran thought he should display surprise, but there would be no use in denying it. So instead he let the facade slip, his features going blank and impersonally smooth. It was actually somewhat comfortable not to need to keep the mask in place._ _ _

___“Four years,” stated simply._ _ _

___“Four rather than five? Truly?” Emille cocked his head quizzically._ _ _

___“Four years,” reiterating. “My **Culminaćion** went full term.”_ _ _

___“Either you are very good, or someone doesn’t like you very much.” Crow’s face pulled into an amused grin, “You are probably wondering why we’re talking and not fighting. I expect four years after your personality assignment, that at least a modicum of character has been ingrained.”_ _ _

___Pausing to poke at his mind, Zevran had his answer, “Actually, I disagree. We are talking in this civil manner because we are assessing one another. You are the more experienced, but you have something to lose, and so you wish to live. Myself, I have nothing to lose. In some ways this might balance us out. However, I saw you waiting for me patiently, and you would have already anticipated any direct attack, as well as an indirect one. And so, we speak until you have decided you are ready to either kill me or try to.”_ _ _

___Emille laughed easily, “Ah, I do remember you being a smart one. In all honesty, though, I no longer have anything to lose. I know I will die this day, unless you are very careless indeed. I’m not going to simply hand you a triumph, not when I know what is in store for me if you brought me in.”_ _ _

___“Interesting,” casting a glance at the door. “I saw a waiting room, perhaps we can discuss this where we can both be comfortable? I assure you, I will try hard to not be sloppy. And I also swear on my honour as a Crow to a fellow Crow that I will not kill you until we have finished our discourse. I am nothing if not polite to my marks.”_ _ _

___“Hmph, I have been a discourteous host.” Snorting and shaking his head the man stood, his leathers shifting softly as he inclined his head, “Shall I lead or you?”_ _ _

___“It would be sloppy of me to turn my back on you,” feeling a small smile quirk reflexively at his lips, his eyes crinkling faintly. “But, you are the host. Also, I do think I would enjoy some brandy, if you have any unopened bottles about.”_ _ _

___The empty villa echoed with the sounds of birdsong from the inner atrium where there were a few small trees and a pond for gazing at. But they went to the room that was adjacent. Worn, dusty divans and a couple of chairs sat covered with a fine layer of gray sediment. Time had not forgotten this place, but there were no servants or slaves about, and other than the office, the villa seemed vacant and unused._ _ _

___“I do, actually. I will be but a moment,” nodding to the sitting room. “I must go to the bedroom. You may follow if you desire, but I would much rather continue this in our civilized manner.”_ _ _

___Making himself comfortable, propping his feet on a low stool, Zevran nodded, “But of course.”_ _ _

___Delsia, Crow **Maestra** had set him this task – kill her eldest son, the rogue Crow Emille. She had warned him of how dangerous her son could be, that he and Taliesin shared nothing in mindset or abilities other than being assassins. Thus far, Delsia’s descriptions had been mildly inaccurate. He had been told that Emille would attack quickly, using every ounce of wit at his disposal. Yet, he had not. There was an air of welcome in the Crow’s bearing, as though he would be glad to be rid of this mortal coil. _ _ _

___While Zevran did not relax per se, he did allow himself to ease up._ _ _

___Returning with a bottle, Emille passed it to him, “I would offer a cup....”_ _ _

___“No need,” taking the bottle and inspecting it carefully before taking his knife and working the cork free. “I shall pour and am content to drink from the bottle.”_ _ _

___Emille pulled up a chair, holding out his glass which was quickly filled. “So, tell me of Antiva City and how it fares. It has been some time since I saw it.”_ _ _

___Taking a slow pull from the brandy, letting it burn a path down his gullet to his belly where it set a small, smoldering fire, Zevran ordered his thoughts. Launching into tales of the current political scene, the latest fashion disasters, and other items that were part and parcel of the world they came from, the Crow spoke at length. He answered questions, some about himself, some about Taliesin and Delsia. Others about the Chantry, and what contracts he had completed, what others he had turned down and why. There was even a minor moment when Zevran allowed himself to enter into a somewhat heated discussion on the **pintor** who had done most of his work. As it turned out, Emille and he shared some similarity in preference for Sa’id ibn Rashid’s skills. _ _ _

___Finally as the bottle neared empty, “I take it you are fond of making a mark’s last moments as pleasant as possible. For this, I thank you.”_ _ _

___Distant, but distinct, puzzlement prickled over his flesh, “Oh? You wish for a last tryst before it is time we fight?”_ _ _

___“No,” shaking his head. “No, I’ve no desire for that. Such needs fled with the death of my wife and our child.”_ _ _

___That was what Zevran had thought. Delsia’s description of the madness that had wracked the Crow, who had once been a Crow Master in his own right, after the feud that had robbed him of his family, was accurate. Everything he had gathered of the personality assignment and the dealings Emille had had with his fellows as well as the public, spoke of a man who was bound very much to honour and a strong sense of what was right and wrong. The Guild was to have come first, but his core personality had been left untouched, supposedly as a favour from the Guildmaster to Delsia. Brows drawing tight over his nose, the elf waited patiently for Emille to explain._ _ _

___“Say on then,” prompting him finally after some minutes trickled past._ _ _

___Emille rubbed his clean shaven chin, “I have a business proposition for you. One that shouldn’t interfere with your duties at all. Hear me out before you discard my offer.”_ _ _

___Flicking a finger, “I admit, you have piqued my curiosity somewhat.”_ _ _

___“I wish you to kill some Templars,” the request was made with utter seriousness, and the man’s demeanor changed to the intensity all Crows were known for. “I would do it myself, but there is only so long one can run, and my time is up.”_ _ _

___Surprised, Zevran frowned, “Templars? And what reason could you have for wanting some dogs of the Chantry dead?”_ _ _

___Generally, it was bad form to ask why someone wanted another dead. Reasons usually fell into a few categories -- someone questioning power, needing vengeance, feeling jealousy, seeking justice even. But why a Crow would want **Templars** wiped from the face of Thedas, now that would be an interesting answer._ _ _

___“They have taken my daughter to the Circle. She is to be a mage,” fists clenching on the armrests. “I would have fled with her somewhere, but where would we go that the Guild’s long arms and the Chantry’s blighted Templars could not find us? I have seen what Templars do to mages, seen the after effects and taken contracts against them often enough.”_ _ _

___Sinking further into the chair’s embrace, Zevran agreed, “As have I. But the Guild is much the same. If you wish me to take her, where would I put her?”_ _ _

___“No, no,” Emille shook his head. “I want you to kill the Templars. Let her go to the Circle. At least there she will get the learning she needs. Later, when she is educated, that is when you should seek her out and free her by any means necessary.”_ _ _

___Crossing his legs at the ankle, Zevran saw a problem with the other man’s plan, “And why should I do this? Killing a few Templars as a boon, I might be persuaded to do that. But freeing a mage from the Tower? That would require much more than persuasion and would be no simple boon. It also assumes she would survive whatever training she was put through and that I live that long as well.”_ _ _

___Snorting, Emille waved a hand, “You will live that long. I can see it in you. You have that look. As for Nerlida, she is made of sterner stuff than anyone would ever give her credit for.”_ _ _

___“Again, what of the reasons I should do this?” Zevran raised the bottle and polished it off in one long draught._ _ _

___“The reasons are this villa, eleven hundred sovereigns, the deed to my spice plantation, and all the workers and slaves on it,” speaking with dead seriousness._ _ _

___Zevran sucked in a sharp breath at the massive sum, “That is worth....”_ _ _

___“Less than my daughter’s life and freedom,” Emille met his gaze unwavering. “My other, minor holdings are to go to her. Think on it. You will have enough collateral to become a Crow Master, one who does not have to answer to any other than the Council and the Guildmaster. I am a very wealthy man, due partly to inheriting my wife’s estates and partly to smart investments I have made since. Of course, you would have to be careful not to let anyone know of our bargain. Otherwise, the Guild would demand its portion.”_ _ _

___Those were quite compelling reasons. Ones to give him pause. Crows were allowed to take minor profits on their own if they had risen sufficiently in the Guild. Zevran had, and was co-owner of the apartment he, Rinna and Taliesin shared. But to have the chance to make a true step upwards? One that more resembled a leap than a step? That would be worth killing a few Templars and biding his time until this Nerlida was old enough to have passed whatever tests the Circle put its mages through._ _ _

___Licking his lips, “Be truthful, what is the catch?”_ _ _

___“I know little of what the Circle does to train its members, but I would think that by the time she is twenty-five years of age, she would have gained all her necessary knowledge.” Emille straightened, setting his glass down, “That gives you fifteen years to find her. I imagine they are taking her to the Tower here, but possibly not.”_ _ _

___“Shall we make this a formal contract then?” Zevran was not willing to give his word without solid legal papers to enforce his payment._ _ _

___“I was already drawing the papers up. I did not know who would come or when, just that it would be soon.” Reaching into his breastplate, he pulled out a set of documents. “Sign them now, if you please, and I will give you partial payment now. Say, two hundred and thirty sovereigns. That is what I should have lying about, along with what I took from our fallen fellows these last eight years.”_ _ _

___Glancing over the papers he stopped, startled, even through the fog of numbness, “An orphan?”_ _ _

___“Blood is not all that makes a family, Zevran,” grunting. “As you know firsthand.” Emille cut his palm, holding a piece of gold in it, “I, Emille Surana, wish to make a contract with you....”_ _ _


	20. Chapter 20

XXX  
Murder 19  
XXX

Staring down at his pack, Zevran grunted then took some items out, trading them for others. Behind him Lahar was rolling up their bedding quietly. _Lyrium, poison, bombs, poultices... Tchk, but what if we must take cover...? Fine, lyrium, poultices,_ blanket _, socks, shirts...leggings... Fauh, I need a real pack. These Fereldens know nothing of properly building them... A bag with some straps does not a proper pack make._

“You’ve been growling and repacking that for the last half hour,” Lahar’s voice was soft as she touched the back of his neck. 

Closing his eyes, Zevran hung his head, “It is nothing.”

“I’m sorry,” withdrawing her hand as she spoke. 

“No, no...” reaching behind him, he quickly grabbed his Bonded and tugged her into his lap. “I am still agitated. No matter what words I use, what actions I make, none of it appears to get through to you. It is understandable that you might be afraid that I will leave, even as you had urged me to. You are unused to having someone to walk beside you, instead of another person for you to carry. It is a bit...aggravating. I am not accustomed to...worrying for another in this manner. And to fail repeatedly in making myself understood only vexes me further.”

Lahar’s cool forehead tucked itself in the crook of his neck, “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“ _Bonita_ , would it help if you knew that until the end of your days I am to be yours? Would that erase your confusion? To know that I took a contract to be with you, of my own free will and choice?” cupping her chin, Zevran searched her eyes, pleading with an unforgiving Maker that he would see a glimmer of acceptance and an understanding of his willing bond.

Instead he saw confusion, and a vague flash of horror, “Why would you do that?”

“I wanted to.” Stroking his lips over hers, “It was a request, and the fee was amenable, particularly since it was in line with my own desires. How is it any different from my vow? How is it any different from my mark in your flesh or my efforts on your hand? Can you not see it as just...further...assurance?” 

The defeated sigh and the way she clung to him were not what he would have wanted under any circumstance from Lahar, “Oh Zevran...”

Returning the embrace, the Crow grit his teeth. It was frustrating, he was frustrated, and she was driving him up the proverbial wall. Squeezing Lahar he kissed her face several times, urging her to look up at him. Once he had her attention his mouth moved to hers, working it open slowly, pouring more than his physical desire for her into it he hoped.

“ _Amante_ , I would be perfectly content taking you somewhere right this moment, to some little plot of land, with a vegetable garden, some chickens, maybe sheep or goats for some milk, and having it be just you and I alone. But that is not how it is in this moment. Right now we have other things to do, but once this Blight is over, I have every intention of doing just that.” Searching her expression, Zevran continued, “For now we do this, because we must. Where you go, I follow. No more doubting my presence, no more silently praying I will leave and praying I will remain. I will ignore all attempts at such things from now on, woman. So, stop.”

Fingers went to his temple, caressing his face in that gentle manner unique to Lahar, a kind of touch only she had ever offered him, “Why would you wish to do that? The chickens, the garden... Why would you want to do that?”

Grimacing, Zevran stated it as simply as he understood it, “I do not know entirely. That is just what I wish to do. I do not want anyone to touch you, to be near you. To ever threaten you. We all need a purpose. Some people find it in honour or duty to some cause. We are all made to have a purpose, even if it is to get up and farm and sell vegetables and pay taxes to an authority who will never know our names. Your purpose is that you have magic and have become a Warden. My purpose was to be a Crow. That is not my choice any longer, as I have another path to choose. And I have. Need it be more complicated than that?”

“Could we have some cats?” The question was so simple, but it was her reaching out and trying to meet him part way.

“As many as you want,” chuckling at the idea of her with a bushel of kittens while Ser Prize barked, romping around as he split wood. 

It was a pleasant idle fantasy.

XXX

Levi had not lied about the route being steep and difficult. Snow and ice made for precarious footing, and while Zevran had no trouble with it, Lahar _did_. From time to time she stumbled or slipped, narrowly avoiding a fall only because he was there to steady her. Each time it happened, she made a faintly peeved sound and dug the tip of her staff into the ground more firmly for several minutes with every step, but eventually she would forget and slip once more.

Ahead, the mountain of armour and broad shoulders that was Sten cleared a path, breaking ice like a plow would soil. Behind, Alistair walked, not exactly a nimble man, but one long used to Ferelden’s winters who rarely made any irritated grumbles about the slippery rocks. Between them were himself and Lahar. Usually he preferred to bring up the rear with Lahar ahead of him or just beside him, as his abilities as a ranger and scout were nearly useless to him except when finding camp or food, but that was in places where the road or path he had found for the party to travel had better footing and was without massive piles of snow to break through. From the corner of his eye, the Antivan watched as Lahar’s left foot slid on a small pebble, turning her ankle in the process even as he was there to steady her. 

“ _Schiesse!_ ” the Tevinter snapping from Lahar’s mouth with the same amount of force as another’s typical ‘ow’. 

Lahar may not have a normal temper, but whenever she received hurts outside of battle, she was a regular little foul mouth. Typically, none of the many words from more languages than he could speak, but most certainly recognize, were uttered with no actual heat. Even so, Zevran winced, knowing that for her to be swearing at all meant her implacable patience was nearing an end and heading into fatigue. 

“Here, a moment, _mi cielo_ ,” murmuring as he slipped his pack free and examined her ankle. 

She braced a hand on his shoulder for balance as he lifted the foot, touching the bones to check them over, “It’s nothing, Zev. I’m fine.”

“Tchk, this is the seventh time you have slipped in five minutes.” Waving at Alistair to come closer, “My friend, I require a favour. Take my pack.”

Alistair’s face scrunched up in irritation as he swung the opening in his helmet wide, “Why would I do that? I’ve got my own.”

By way of explanation, Zevran threaded Lahar’s staff through the halter she never used, and unhooked his cloak from one shoulder allowing it to swing free as he squatted before his Bonded. “Climb up _mi diosa_.”

“I can walk on my own,” she protested.

“I could carry her,” Alistair offered, to which Zevran shot him a black look.

Ignoring Lahar for the moment, “You are covered in freezing cold _metal_ , Alistair.” Whistling he grabbed Sten’s attention, “Ho there, Sten! A moment.”

“Foolishness, why are we stopping?” Sten’s gravel-grinding, booming yet still quiet voice grumbled. 

Reaching behind him, Zevran popped Lahar’s thigh, “Climb up, _amante_. We will make better time if I carry you.”

Eventually, there was a sigh and he felt the small Warden clamber up. With that, Alistair picked up Zevran’s pack, and they all resumed their march. As he walked with Lahar upon his back, there was some minor adjusting until she had tucked the loose ends of his cloak about them. She was light, although not tremendously so, but the Antivan had carried greater weights than that upon his back in years past. Every Crow periodically did endurance training to maintain their abilities, and Zevran did it more often than many. One never knew when being able to bear twice one’s own weight for mile upon mile might be necessary. Not only that, but it made the normal weight of his gear feel tremendously light, granting him speed and flexibility. 

And so, with Lahar’s feet thumping against his thighs with each step and her arms draped over his shoulders, Zevran marched, without slipping upon the treacherous footing.

XXX

“The Dryden knows much,” the slowly decaying corpse that was once Sophia Dryden but now housed a demon, grated. “But this one knows you, Warden. We know mages who travel the Fade. Shining little beings, drawing us to your flames when you sleep.”

Lahar’s head canted to one side, “You will tell Levi what he wishes to know. I don’t care what you know of me. Do not waste your unliving breath on my account.”

“As you say Nerlida Surana, little shining beacon. Ask your questions, and I will search the Dryden’s memory,” rasping and hollow, the creature’s sibilant voice hissed.

After the demon spoke, Zevran tuned all else out, staring at the back of Lahar’s head. Something was playing with his life, her life as well, moving them about like pawns. He didn’t particularly care _what_ that power was, he wanted it to stop. _You and I will have words my dear, and you will not put me off with deflections this time._ As though she could sense the hard weight of his gaze, ‘Lahar’ turned to glance at him, her porcelain brow furrowing. Even noting her apparent confusion, he was still enough of a Crow to feel a cold anger at having been manipulated. Something was not right with their situation, as he had suspected off and on, and he would have answers as soon as he had a moment to gain them. 

“We will see to this problem you have in your tower,” Lahar spoke to the possessed Sophia while still maintaining eye-contact with him. 

Taking Lahar by the arm, Zevran squeezed firmly, “Making deals with demons, my dear Warden? You are more ruthless than anticipated. The Crows vastly underestimated you and the Wardens.” _Not only they, but I have vastly underestimated you it seems..._

Her bow shaped lips puckered in a tiny frown, “Pardon?”

“No, no, do not let me stop you,” releasing her arm as he met her gaze. “Carry on. I am eager to see what you do, _Nerlida_.”

Lahar’s nose wrinkled with distaste, “I never use that name. Please don’t use it either.”

That was the piece of information and confirmation that he needed. Stowing it aside for later, Zevran carried on following Lahar’s lead. Once they reached the tower, she pored over Avernus’ notes with typical fascination at another mage’s work. Alistair fidgeted, and Sten serenely scanned their surroundings, taking in the signs of torture and battle. Zevran on the other hand, stared at Lahar hard, biding his time to pounce and have his questions answered.

 _One coincidence is acceptable. Two is the outside of probable, but still within the realm of possible. Three... What games go on about me? Fortuna, you wily bitch, Emille you ragged ass. What did you do? And Lahar... No. **Nerlida** , what is it that you know of all this?_ Zevran wasn’t prepared to believe she was as uninformed as she pretended, even though his Bonded was not the sort to partake of subterfuge – avoidance and deflection certainly, but not subterfuge. If he was being played, he wanted to know it. He understood that there were politics played among people and groups, and in life; Zevran just wanted to know what the rules were and what his part in it all was. He could deal with that, he just wanted to be aware of what his script must be.

“Zevran?” she waved to him. “Could you look at these notes with me?” Turning towards him she pointed to a passage and dropped her voice so only he would hear. “This Avernus’ notes say that a Warden can have more abilities from what we are than simply sensing darkspawn.”

Skimming the words on the page, he frowned, “And the side-effects of these abilities being made available?”

“It doesn’t say, but the research is quite sound,” tapping her chin in thought, gaze turning inwards. “The details are there, the time spent on finding the correct applications. It’s all there. Wardens died to bring this research into being. And if it could be another tool I have access to...”

“Then what need have you of my approval?” It was an effort of will to keep his tone level, hiding away his bruised and battered state, “There is a Blight to combat, any opportunity to expand the limited arsenal we have access to is to be taken.”

Teeth bit into the soft bottom lip as she stared at the door and then at the bottle of whatever brew Avernus had cooked up. “We probably should speak to Avernus first. But...”

With a determined nod and before he could counsel her to wait until seeing to the mage, the Warden was grabbing the vial and downing its contents. It was good that he was standing beside her as she doubled up choking. Catching her, Zevran waited as Sten and Alistair rushed forward, but he held a hand up keeping them well back. A mouthful of thick black fluid sprayed from Lahar’s lips before she clenched her jaw. In his grasp she shuddered, and he could feel her struggling and fighting. Eyes opened to show veined white spreading over her irises and pupils before it receded. Fingers scrabbled at him, digging in, and he held still, rapidly running through his inventory of antidotes and what he could use to cause her to purge the poison of Avernus’ potion. 

The minutes dragged on, but she became no worse. Slowly, colour – what little colour she had – returned to her face. The fluttering of the vein in her neck reduced speed gradually, and her breathing became easier and looser. Zevran felt the tension in his shoulders ease as well, the torrential flash of adrenaline that had come over him as he waited to see some sign of change receded, leaving him wrung out. At that moment it didn’t much matter what games Fortuna was playing, his only thought was how he could stop whatever was changing within her.

A harsh stream of curses were coughed from Lahar’s black spittle covered lips, sagging against him before she finally tucked her face into his chest, “I’m not doing that again.”

Alistair gave a nervous laugh, “You did the same thing after your Joining.”

Shooting him a glower, Zevran grunted, “Glad I am that some things do not change.”

XXX

After the corpse of Sophia Dryden was destroyed, Avernus was admonished to help the Wardens, and the portals were closed down, Zevran held Lahar back. Sten, Alistair and Levi went outside to see to making a full camp in the interim. But it was time to gain some much needed answers.

“Nerlida Surana,” taking Lahar by the shoulders he stared down at her face, examining it for every flicker that might give away information. 

“My name, yes, and it’s one I’ve never used. I’m just Lahar,” frowning. 

The keep smelled of must, mildew, stone and ichor, and was not the best sort of setting to be prying information from anyone. Unless the intent was to torture. _No, I would not go that far with you..._

A tendon in his jaw jumped as he kept reign on his impatience, “A name you have never used, why? And why have you hidden that from me?”

Surprise raised her brows and caused her face to scrunch to one side. “Hidden it? How can I hide something that I never use? Zevran, I grew up called _abomination_ as my name, and all the other children were called the same. The only name I had personally was the one that...that the man who raised me called me. He called me ‘Lahar’. I never even _knew_ I had a name other than that until I reached the Circle and everyone started calling me Nerlida. I didn’t like it, it didn’t fit, it was not me, it was not my name. So, I told them to not call me that.”

“You almost told me his name,” his fingers dug into her shoulders. “Where were you born?”

“It doesn’t matter. The name of a dead man is worthless to anyone but those who held him dear.” A one-shouldered shrug, “The papers that Enchanter Irving gave me said that I was born at the Circle of Antiva. My ‘father’ was supposed to have been Dalish before the Templars tore him from his clan during a trade session. My ‘mother’ was from some farm or other originally. That’s all I know. Why? None of this has any bearing on anything.” 

“ _Habló Antivan este tiempo entero_ ,” slipping into his mother-tongue’s familiar embrace.

“ _¿Sí, y qué?_ I speak many languages, it is what I do,” her confusion clearly intensified. “They’re words, it doesn’t matter. Why are you so...angry with me? I didn’t hide anything. There was no reason to mention a name no one uses, a place that came from long ago, and people I never knew. It has no bearing upon anything at all. And yet, you’re angry.”

Allowing his hands to drop away from her shoulders, Zevran shook his head, “Unbelievable. You ask me questions, I answer no matter how meaningless the question. I ask _you_ questions, you deflect. Why should I not be put out? I have asked you where you were from, what your life was like, you do not answer in full. You cannot even give me something so simple as the name of the man who raised you. Fine. If that is how it is, that is how it is.”

Turning on his heel, he left, but not too fast for Lahar to follow. He had _contracts_ to uphold. And he would be damned if he did not follow the oldest one and the most recent one, as they were the only ones that had any bearing on his personal word.

XXX

He didn’t say anything as she slid beneath the covers next to him, nor when she rolled over and pressed her back to his. Nor did he say anything when she curled into a ball, her bottom tucked lower than his and still clothed in her under robes. It wasn’t until he smelled blood and felt the shaking of her tiny form that Zevran rolled over and pulled her into him.

“Lahar, cease,” sighing into the back of her head. “It is a useless pursuit that affects nothing.”

Again, he was the one to make his Bonded cry.

Her breathing was surprisingly easy in spite of the scent of frozen blood and salt, “Ask your questions.”

Rolling his tongue over the back of his teeth, Zevran aimed for something lighter than what she was no doubt expecting, “What is your favourite colour?”

“What has that to do with anything?” startled confusion.

“Nothing. And everything. Just tell me,” reaching around to cup her face, his fingers pressed over her lids in hopes of slowing her tears.

“I don’t have one.” Lahar’s body didn’t uncurl, but Zevran began stroking over her side in long sweeps, urging her to ease. “Never thought about it. Why should I have a favourite colour? What does it do? What is it for? I don’t know.”

Tucking his head down so he could rest his mouth on her shoulder, “Things need not always have a purpose or direction. Come, is there not some colour you find pleasing? Something that puts you at ease or brings a smile to your face? Or one that makes you feel attractive?”

“No,” Lahar rolled over to face him, and he watched as she healed her eyes. 

“You wear purple or blue frequently,” he pointed out. “They are most becoming on you.” Seeing that the question had no meaning to her at all, and there wasn’t even a hint that she understood it, he changed tactics. “Then...tell me of where you were raised. What was it like?”

That elicited a reaction. 

His Bonded glanced away, unable to hold his gaze, “What was it like? What particular aspect do you need to know? Specify, as they’re not memories I like, and I don’t want to dig too far.”

He knew a good deal from things she had vaguely implied, things Crow had shown him and what he knew of the depravity the Chantry could be party to. 

Touching her ear through the sable drape of hair, “Was there anything good there?”

“Yes. When the other children were too far away and had forgotten me, when the Templars’, monks’, priests’ and priestesses’ eyes were elsewhere, it was beautiful.” Lahar’s pale irises seemed to go far away, “High walls. So very high, looming white plaster in some places. Others, dark umber. But, if I found a hiding spot that was high enough, I could see trees. Tree upon tree in ordered rows. The air smelled of figs, oranges, lemons. I can remember their scents, but never their taste. Closer, there were little plots that held melon. They smelled so sweet. Crisp and cool, even though the air was so hot.” Lids fluttered closed as she took a deep breath, “In one of the inner gardens where we weren’t supposed to go, there was a pond with small cascades and a fountain with...a dolphin I think. Maybe a fish? Benches of veined stone, and at night the moon would be thrown back a thousand times from the surface of the water....”

Zevran waited, allowing her to search. It gave him time to look at the puzzle before him. The possibilities were not pretty. On one hand a series of simple coincidences happened. That was the most unlikely of options, but he was not fool enough to discount it. Another possibility was that someone, somewhere, was purposefully manipulating he and Lahar for some reason, a reason he was thus far unable to identify. Nor could he identify the person. However, the most logical conclusion was that it wasn’t a person per se, but that strange Fade entity, Crow. Yet, the reason was important. He needed to know that. So much would come to light if he could find out what the reasoning was for the entire ordeal. On the other hand, there was some remote, ideal chance that the Maker was involved somehow.

He didn’t believe the last at all. Zevran was far more inclined to believe in the first, a strange series of happenstance and serendipity aligning for no reason at all. In all truth, though, it was the second one that held the most water. That was what his gut instincts told him, roaring, snarling and snapping at him.

“And the man who raised you? Was he not a good thing there also?” finally he prompted Lahar after her long silence.

She sat up, wrapping her arms about her legs as she rested her chin upon her knees, “At night, when I couldn’t sleep, I would sneak out. The other children never noticed and, for some reason, neither did the adults patrolling the hallways. It...it was like I always knew when he was outside, when there would be no others about.” A detached tone entered her voice, dissociating and disconnecting from the memories, which sent a shot of worry through him, “He would be outside, sometimes in the garden, sometimes elsewhere. One night there was no moon, and it was so dark. I needed light, and...” in demonstration a lavender wisp bloomed, pinpoint tiny and barely more than a faint glow, “...this happened. It didn’t matter, I was four perhaps. Maybe three. With it, I managed to see where my feet could step without making noise or tripping. Outside he...Emille. My...my ‘papa’... He was moving. Slowly. To and fro, flowing like a breeze. Hands, feet. Legs. Snapping and slashing the air, but still fluid.”

 _ **Cuerpo Volante,** and **Baile de Muerte** , but I knew this already. Still, she has at least said his name. Was it possible that a mortal, a Crow, had somehow become part of the Fade? No, that... Is highly unlikely. We Crows are not things of faith, but vengeance. Emille had his vengeance through me and the surety that Lahar, his daughter in things not born of blood, would be avenged, trained, and rescued._ But it was all too neat, too pat. Still, he had to give the idea some benefit of the doubt, because if he believed Crow and Emille were one and the same, that the soul of one as twisted as a Crow could become part of the Fade... _Rinna, would you come for me because of the wrongs I committed against you? Yes, you probably would._ Rinna, if she had that chance, that power...she was passionate and wild. For vengeance she would come, even for him. 

Most especially for him, considering her feelings and how he had crushed them, laughed them off, even as she lay drowning in a widening pool of her own blood. 

To distract himself, “ _Baile de Muerte_ , when done by a master of the art, is one of the most beautiful things any living person could see. And frequently is the last thing they see.”

“He kept moving,” Lahar shrugged. “Even though I think he knew I was there. Eventually he stopped, squatted down and held his arms open for me. And told me to not make light like that again. Not where any would see it, feel it, sense it. From then on, he made me learn, not that I didn’t want to. It helped me, the exercises. Body, mind, the way the ground sheds and throws off force. It helped me understand some of what my ability was. More importantly, it helped me hide it.”

“Your ears, your abilities,” touching the side of her head, then her hands, Zevran nodded his understanding. “To protect you. It makes me wonder at something though.”

Lahar’s head rolled so that she could look at him, her cheek atop a kneecap, “Hmm?”

“Why did he not take you from such a place?” It was a question that had been niggling at him for years, even though the logic Emille had presented made sense...

Still. Allowing a child with active mage Talent to remain in such a place was unconscionable. If it had been himself in that rogue Crow’s shoes, he would have taken her as soon as he had become attached. Running with a virtual newborn was easier than running with a toddler or a young child.

“And where would he have taken me?” blinking rapidly in her puzzlement. “To a city? A town? Where Crows would have found us? What would they have done to him? To me? It doesn’t matter, he did what he thought he could, no doubt. He was all I had. And then...I had him no more. I was sent to the Circle of Ferelden, because the Divine banned any mage Talented children born of mages of the Circle from joining the same Circle as they sprang from. Rivain was too open-minded, Orlais too crowded, and Nevarra’s Circle is a joke specializing in nothing of any worth beyond preserving corpses. That left Ferelden. So, to Ferelden I went, Templars circling me, death chasing us, though I don’t think they were aware of it.”

 _No, they most certainly were not,_ repressing the urge to say it aloud. _He_ had been the one to kill them, waiting until they returned from their trip, an odd job. And upon finding the trophies one of the Templars had kept, Zevran, even numbed as he had been, had wished he drew that particular ‘man’s’ death out far longer. The eldest, upon realizing that a Crow had come for him, no doubt guessed as to why. Taking a mage child from someone’s family, then torturing or maiming or terrorizing that fledgling was a common reason to hire a Crow. That Templar had protested, asked who it was who had wronged a new mage. Zevran had only shrugged and said he asked no questions of his employer and that he was there to do a job. The Templar he regretted killing too fast was the first to break, blustering and pointing fingers. The old Templar had turned away from him and backhanded the man. The infighting gave Zevran all the chances he needed to do the job.

He hadn’t thought much about those deaths in a long time. They were ancient history, fulfilling a piece of a contract. That was all. Zevran couldn’t even remember their faces, all they had been was walking meat in armour. Many of those deaths in the first decade after his _Culminacion_ were like that. Faint outlines of eyes, nose, mouth, blood pools, ligature marks. The acts of the kills, the methods, the actions leading up to them – Zevran could recall all those things in perfect detail. Faces, those he could not.

Reaching out, he tugged her to lay nestled against him, “What makes you think death was...’chasing’ them?”

“It...I... Zevran...please,” her voice dropped to a frantic, nervous whisper. “I can’t. Please, no more.”

“ _Mi diosa_ , shhh,” Zevran soothed her, whispering as he massaged her scalp and neck. “Enough questions then. Let us sleep.”

XXX

_Everything smelled sharp and crisp and far too rank at once. Being a cat was usually like that. Not that it was of importance. Morrigan was following the form of a woman dressed in such a way as the young Chasind had never heretofore imagined. Such finery, such beauty – a dress of coloured cloth, beaten metal bracelets, and hair oiled and coiled and elegantly coiffed...._

_Morrigan_ had _to find out how all these things were done, such knowledge could grant her power._

_So she slunk, sometimes in shadows and sometimes scrambling to the tops of fences, trailing the fine woman. Others of the grubby townsfolk would smile and nod to this woman, this elegant, powerful creature. To the inn Morrigan followed, sneaking indoors between feet and avoiding all detection, even creeping up the stairs to lay in wait. She would learn from this woman, find how it was that she gained so much over those around her. She must be some form of mage, no matter that the little witch could not sense any magic from the woman._

_“Mama!” a squeal came when the woman opened the door, and Morrigan saw a small girl of a similar age to herself attack the woman in a terribly inefficient manner. Arms flailing about and wrapping around a leg really wouldn’t do more than possibly unbalance the woman, yet the girl persisted, bouncing up and down as she chanted, “Mama! Mama! I love you!”_

_The little feline shaped witch stared in confusion as the woman hoisted the girl into her arms and pressed lips to the girl’s cheeks and forehead. “I love you, too! And I see you were a good girl, your hair’s nice and clean. Let’s put it up for the night, shall we?”_

_“Uh-huh!” vigorous nodding tossed long brown hair about as the child clung to the her._

_Morrigan could not comprehend why a child who could walk would be carried about as though an invalid. Still, she sat and watched as the mother and daughter sat, chatting about utterly inane matters. There was no discussion of magic or power or knowledge in any form, only if the child had eaten her vegetables and learned her numbers. Of all the things! And they spoke of something about a boy who had pulled on ‘pigtails’._

_In spite of that, Morrigan could not stop watching, crouched down low and staring._

_Later, after the little girl had been put to bed with much cooing and lots of touches, Morrigan crept from her hiding spot, transforming with each step. She stared at the pale skinned girl who was sleeping, her long sable hair done in two long braids. Thoughts of the powerful woman slipped away, and she only wished that her mother would tuck her safe abed similarly. The small child was sprawled, breathing softly, a hand balled into a loose fist beside her head and so peaceful in repose that she could have been made of marble._

_Inside of her breast, something twisted, and it hurt horribly and made the young witch’s face hot and burn. Particularly, her eyes were stinging, and Morrigan almost fled at that moment. Yet Flemeth’s voice struck her in memory, scathing as she punished Morrigan for fleeing from pain. It was a lesson hard learned and one that she clung to as her eyes felt like they may melt. In fact, they_ were _melting, or so Morrigan feared for a moment until she realized it was nothing more than water leaking from her eyes._

_She didn’t know how long she stood there, staring at the other girl, but perhaps the weight of her gaze was too heavy as the child’s lids fluttered open. Expecting a scream, Morrigan began to back away, knowing that being found was most unwise. Flemeth wouldn’t save her if she were so foolishly caught._

_Instead of screaming, the girl sat up, head cocked curiously, “You’re crying.”_

_“I am doing no such thing!” Morrigan shot back, denying the accusation and aiming for as adult a tone as she could find. Flemeth had always been so insistent on that tone, that it was almost ingrained, “I am no babe! I do not cry!”_

_The other girl made a confused expression, slipping from under the covers, a hand reaching out to touch Morrigan’s wet cheek, “Tears, water that comes out of your eyes, see?”_

_Morrigan flinched at the contact, “Tears are for small children and the weak.”_

_“Oh, don’t be silly. Tears are from the Maker to wash us clean!” the girl said rather matter of factly. “If you’re crying then there’s something that needs to be washed away from you inside.”_

_Crossing her arms, Morrigan huffed, “I do not believe in the stupid Maker.”_

_“Why not?” the girl cocked her head, scooting over on the bed, blankets shifting as she patted a spot. “Come up here. Mama says there’s a nasty draft, and feetsies get cold.”_

_For some reason, Morrigan joined the foolish child on the bed. They were of a size, but the other girl had more meat on her, likely from being fed far better. A hand came out to wipe at Morrigan’s cheeks, working on the tears again, a look of concentration on the child’s face until she nodded once in satisfaction. And then bizarrely, Morrigan was subjected to that odd attack, that inefficient wrapping of arms, and she found herself tugged in tight until she realized just how very cold she had been._

_Taken aback, she stuttered, “For what reason do you do this foolish thing, you strange creature?”_

_“You’re cold! And you’re crying,” it was explained succinctly. “Mama always holds me when I cry, because even if those tears are sent to wash us clean, sometimes it hurts, and being hugged helps lots.”_

_Morrigan thought about resisting, but it was very warm in the bed. The blankets weren’t scratchy, smelled of crisp herbs to keep away bedbugs – lemon balsam, verbena, mint, sage and lavender. It was thick and cool scented, yet the bed was ever so comfortable._

_“‘Tis foolishness,” she groused even as she sniffed at her runny nose, trying to quiet her tears. “Mother says that the Maker is a lie, or if he is real, then he cares nothing for any of us, having moved onto more interesting things than us.”_

_The girl pursed her lips, thinking, “Maybe. But Andraste didn’t forget us, she gave us the Chant and other things to make our lives better. So we know how to live and take care of ourselves and others.”_

_“Nonsense, we took care of ourselves just fine before she stuck her nose into things,” Morrigan countered primly._

_“But that’s not very nice. The Magisters hurt people who were weaker than them all the time and were very nasty to people,” she said it with such conviction that Morrigan was taken aback. “They used their magic to do whatever they wanted, instead of taking care of and husbanding the land.”_

_“Only the strong survive, ‘tis a commonly known fact. No one takes care of another unless they can get something out of it!”_

_The girl frowned, her expression hurt and searching until it lit up and she scuttled from the bed, digging in a chest quietly, “I took care of you and hugged you, and I expect nothing back!” She returned a gorgeous bauble covered thing in her hands, showing it off, revealing it to be a mirror, “See?”_

_“‘Tis a mirror, it proves nothing,” Morrigan rubbed at her eyes for a moment, frowning her own confusion._

_A smile broke free, spreading over the pale features, “I want you to have it.” She grabbed Morrigan’s hands, depositing the treasure in her grasp. “My Daddy gave this to me on my birthday before he had to go far away for awhile. It reminds me of how much he loves me, just because. I want you to have it, so you ‘member that you don’t have to be strong all the time, and that someone can help you too, just because.”_

_Morrigan stared in shock at the gift, her reflection cast back, “Mother will not like it that I spoke to someone...”_

_“Your mama sounds mean. Mama says lying is bad, but maybe we should make a story up?” A giggle, “I’m Tagni, let’s be friends. Maybe if you come often enough, Mama and Daddy can be your Mama and Daddy too? That way you wouldn’t have to make up stories for your mama.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some lovely notes describing some of my thought processes, but I accidentally deleted them. 
> 
> They went a bit like this:
> 
> A Murder of Crows has a pervasively dark, irritated, resistant, obsessive, and resentment filled tone. The reason for this has to do with the fact that, historically for me, fandom has been a bit of an unfulfilling wasteland for various reasons. Basically lots of pain, and the only real gain is better skills, while dodging flames and worse, and that many of my friends in the past gained via fandom, have been emotional vampires. You know the kind, the kind that suck you dry until you're dry and listless and there's not much left emotionally or creatively to call your own. (Not that I'm all sunshine either, but it was pretty bad, and I've been involved in fandoms since 1999.) So, I liked reading DAO stuff, loved it, but I didn't want to participate. I didn't want to write, I didn't want to get to know anyone. But I had the idea for A Murder of Crows (which was my first foray into DAO as a writer, though I published my DAO fics here out of order on AO3) and I was resistant. I didn't want to give in to the ideas that plagued me and wouldn't be satisfied with being put to original fiction stories. I was so upset with the plot nugs that wouldn't stop squealing for me to write them, and I resisted and dug my heels in...but, like always when I've got a nagging idea, I gave in. But I didn't have to be joyous about it! 
> 
> That entire history of stuff and mindset came out in A Murder of Crows, I see it when I reread all of it. I fear that I probably can't slip back into a sufficient mindset to finish this, though I know how I want it to go, but I just can't capture M!Z's voice, as anything I've worked on for chapter 20 sounds like it comes from a different series. But I will try.
> 
> The reason I'll try, is because this fandom surprised me. I don't tend to deal well with female friends, not for long term - a year, maybe two, and then I am empty and unable to do whatever it is that a friend is supposed to do. But here, in DA, I have found six women friends that I've been in contact with off and on - and the 'off' periods always end! - since late 2010. As in shortly after I joined the fandom. Their friendship, buttkicking for goodness, and our mutual pushing (even when we disagree vehemently about something) has grounded me and steadied me. 
> 
> So, without any further random rambling:  
> Thank you, much love, adoration, and various mushy crap I don't tend to actually say myself (in no particular order), I dedicate my continuing work in fanfic (and lots of original stuff too, elsewhere) to Sleepy, bellaknoti, Briala, Nagia, Janni, Ninja. I can only hope to give and share with you the way you have each given of your time, thoughts and selves the way you have with me.


End file.
